


Skulduggery Pleasant: The Dead Men

by purplejabberwocky



Series: Skulduggery Pleasant: Dead Men Walking [1]
Category: Skulduggery Pleasant - Derek Landy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen, The Dead Men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-17 20:19:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 69,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplejabberwocky/pseuds/purplejabberwocky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meet the Dead Men: wise-cracking detectives, powerful magicians, sworn enemies of evil.</p><p>And one of them is actually dead.</p><p> </p><p>NOTE: Updated for 'Last Stand of Dead Men' canon. Now contains major 'Last Stand' spoilers.</p><p>NOTE: Updated 11 Dec 2015 for nitpicks and streamlining.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stephanie

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AmaraqWolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmaraqWolf/gifts).



Gordon Edgley’s death came as a shock to everyone—not least himself. One moment he was in his study, seven words into the twenty-fifth sentence of the final chapter of his new book _And The Darkness Rained Upon Them_ , and the next he was dead.

_A tragic loss,_ his mind echoed numbly as he slipped away.

The funeral was attended by family and acquaintances but not many friends. Gordon hadn’t been a well-liked figure in the publishing world, for although the books he wrote—tales of horror and magic and wonder—regularly reared their heads in the bestseller lists, he had the disquieting habit of insulting people without realising it, then laughing at their shock. It was at her uncle Gordon’s funeral, however, that Stephanie Edgley first caught sight of the odd-looking group of gentlemen.

There were seven of them, standing in the shade (or almost in the shade) of a large tree, away from the crowd. The first one to catch Stephanie’s eye was the one on the end, because he was in the full sunlight and yet his tan coat was buttoned up all the way despite the warmth of the afternoon. A scarf was wrapped around the lower half of his face and, even from her position on the far side of the grave, Stephanie could make out the wild and frizzy hair that escaped from the wide-brimmed hat he wore low over his gigantic sunglasses. She watched him, intrigued by his appearance, and then looked at the others.

The man next to him wore a coat as well, a black one, but it wasn’t buttoned up. He wore a big hat too, one that covered his face as long as he kept his head lowered. He was twice the size of the man in the tan coat, but not in a way that was fat—he looked like a body-builder. The next one along was beautiful in a very manly way, beautiful enough that Stephanie thought so even though she wasn’t really interested in boys. His was the first face she could see, and he looked very sombre, like a person at a funeral should, but also had a tightness around his mouth that seemed like anger.

Wondering why he would be angry, Stephanie examined the others. There was a man with long black hair and dressed so much like a funeral director that Stephanie wondered if he was, before remembering that the funeral house who had organised Gordon’s burial had been headed by a woman. He looked tired but controlled. Stephanie couldn’t tell what he was thinking, which was a difference from the next two men.

The fifth man was crying. He looked furious, but he was crying, and not trying to hide the tears, either. He was the one in front, as if he wanted to be part of the proceedings but didn’t dare. The sixth man was blond and good-looking, and he was crying too, looking sad and grim but not angry. He stood a little closer to the fifth man, one hand on his arm, though it was hard to tell if it was to hold him back or to comfort him.

Stephanie thought they looked manlier than she would have thought crying men would, even though she had never really seen men cry before. Not so openly.

At first she thought it was just those six, but then she noticed movement behind them, right under the tree. She didn’t get a very good look. All she saw was red hair and the fact that the seventh man was the only one not wearing a suit (other than the man in the tan coat, whose clothes she couldn’t see).

Stephanie watched them for a little while. Eventually she felt as if someone was looking back at her, but none of the men whose faces she could see were looking specifically in her direction and she couldn’t tell if the men whose faces she couldn’t were or not. So she glanced quickly back toward the minister and tried, for the rest of the service, to pretend they weren’t there at all.

It was hard, and by the time the service ended her temples were throbbing with the effort. She turned to walk with her parents back to the car, when there came an angry bellow from behind her. Startled, Stephanie turned around to see Gordon’s other brother, Fergus, lunging at the first of the crying men.

Fergus was an unlikeable little man who was prone to displays of drama, but Stephanie had never seen him truly angry before. This was a righteous sort of fury which came from actual grief. Stephanie hadn’t even known Fergus was capable of grief.

He grabbed the crying man by the lapels and shook him hard, and even though the man was a little bit taller it didn’t really look funny at all. “You promised me!” Fergus was shouting. “ _You promised me!_ ”

Stephanie stared. The crying man wasn’t doing anything to stop Fergus at all, even though he should have been able to. His face had taken the scrunched-up look of someone still angry, but at themselves. The others had all reacted, though, moving closer around the crying man almost protectively.

The man in the hat and the open coat stepped forward and put an arm on Fergus’s arm, and even though Stephanie couldn’t tell if he said anything, Fergus stopped. A moment later he let go of the crying man, breathing hard. Stephanie heard his voice, sharp and furious, but not what he said, and then Fergus turned around and came back, refusing to say anything to anyone.

“Come on, Stephanie.”

Wondering what that was all about, Stephanie followed her parents toward the car.

 

After the service Stephanie and her parents travelled back to her dead uncle’s house, over a humpbacked bridge and along a narrow road that carved its way through thick woodland. The gates were heavy and grand and stood open, welcoming them into the estate. The grounds were vast and the old house itself was ridiculously big.

There was an extra door in the living-room, a door disguised as a bookcase, and when she was younger Stephanie liked to think that no one else knew about this door, not even Gordon himself. It was a secret passageway, like in the stories she’d read, and she’d make up adventures about haunted houses and smuggled treasure. This secret passageway would always be her escape route, and the imaginary villains in these adventures would be dumbfounded by her sudden and mysterious disappearance. But now this door, this secret passageway, stood open, and there was a steady stream of people through it, and she was saddened that this little piece of magic had been taken from her.

Tea was served and drinks were poured and little sandwiches were passed around on silver trays, and Stephanie watched the mourners casually appraise their surroundings. The major topic of hushed conversation was the will. Gordon wasn’t a man who inspired, or even demonstrated, any great affection, so no one could predict who would inherit his substantial fortune. Stephanie would have expected Fergus to be very involved in this discussion, but instead he skulked around the edges of the room, glancing through the door with a frown and snapping whenever someone spoke to him.

Fergus’s wife was a thoroughly dislikeable, sharp-featured woman named Beryl. She drifted through the crowd, deep in unconvincing grief, prying for gossip and digging for scandal when she wasn’t whispering to her husband and trying to drag him into the crowd. At one point he snarled something back at her with such ferocity that she started back in shock and flounced away, thereafter leaving him alone.

“Do _you_ know what’s going on?” Carol asked Stephanie while her sister Crystal looked away and sniffed in a manner very like her mother. Carol and Crystal were twins, fifteen years old, with a habit of alternating between being as sour and vindictive as Beryl and displaying evidence of people Stephanie might actually want to like. Stephanie had always wondered where the second part came from, because while Fergus was prone to bouts of drama he’d never shown he was capable of Gordon’s sense of humour.

Whereas Stephanie was dark-haired, tall, slim and strong, the twins were bottle-blonde and stumpy. Crystal was dressed in clothes that made her bulge in all the wrong places and Carol was wearing an outfit which, while not hiding her bulges, at least flattered them. Apart from their brown eyes, no one would guess that the twins were related to Stephanie. She liked that.

“There was a man at the funeral,” she said cautiously, since Carol seemed to be in a friendly mood and her own curiosity was killing her. “I thought Fergus was going to punch him.”

“Oh, that was just Rover,” Crystal said with a sneer. “He comes around all the time to be a pest. I think he actually asks for money. Sometimes he brings a friend.”

Stephanie felt that if this was true it was either karmic justice or the man, Rover, was extremely hopeful. Either way, Crystal wasn’t clever enough to lie about something like that or observant enough to be accurate, so Stephanie looked at Carol instead. Carol had more potential to be liked. Sometimes she was actually useful.

Carol caught the look. “He’s an advisor,” she said. “I’ve heard them talking about Uncle Gordon.”

“Do you _see_ what he keeps wearing?” Crystal asked contemptuously. “And what kind of advisor names himself after a dog?”

“He’s funny,” Carol said almost defensively. “And I think he was in the army. He has dogtags.”

“Everybody wears dogtags these days!”

Stephanie left them to their brewing argument and went for a walk. The corridors of her uncle’s house were long and lined with paintings. The floor beneath Stephanie’s feet was wooden, polished to a gleam, and the house smelled of age. Not musty exactly but … experienced. These walls and these floors had seen a lot in their time, and Stephanie was nothing but a faint whisper to them. Here one instant, gone the next.

Gordon had been a good uncle. Arrogant and irresponsible, yes, but also childish and enormous fun, with a light in his eyes, a glint of mischief. When everyone else was taking him seriously, Stephanie was privy to the winks and the nods and the half-smiles that he would shoot her way when they weren’t looking. Even as a child she felt she understood him better than most. She liked his intelligence and his wit, and the way he didn’t care what people thought of him. He’d been a good uncle to have. He’d taught her a lot.

She knew that her mother and Gordon had briefly dated (‘courted’, her mother had called it), but when Gordon had introduced her to his younger brother, it was love at first sight. Gordon liked to grumble that he had never got more than a peck on the cheek, but he stepped aside graciously, and had quite happily gone on to have numerous torrid affairs with numerous beautiful women. He used to say that it had almost been a fair trade, but that he suspected he had lost out.

Stephanie climbed the staircase, meaning to go into Gordon’s study to think, but before she was halfway up she stopped. There was someone else already inside. A few someones, in fact. She could hear them pouring drinks and laughing. There were at least four, and the thought occurred that maybe it was the group of gentlemen she had seen at the funeral.

“—time in Los Angeles with the brunette?” someone said, the words coming between fits of laughter.

“Brunette? Which brunette? Wait, you mean the one who—”

“Aengus’s _balls_ , I’m still convinced she was just out for blood!” This would have been said indignantly, if the owner of the voice hadn’t also sounded so incredulously amused.

“What’s this now?” This was the fourth voice to speak, deep and anticipatory.

“The three of us, Saracen and Gordon were at a bar,” the first voice began, but was almost instantly interrupted by a fifth voice, quiet and even but just a bit raspy.

“Skip to the parts we _don’t_ know, Erskine.”

“—and we were out looking for a bit of female company—”

“He said the parts we don’t know.” This was the sixth voice, one so smooth it could have been made of velvet. The man called Erskine chose to ignore him too.

“—and as it happened we were each visited by a very pretty brunette who just happened to be the same person. Without actually mentioning that she was the same person.”

“I can see where this is going.”

“Maybe you’d like to tell the story, then, dead man.”

“Why would I want to do that? It’s more fun to listen to you humiliating yourselves.”

Stephanie found herself smiling. She was sure these were the strange gentlemen under the tree. They were funny like Gordon was. He would have liked the fact that they remembered him by telling funny stories.

“We could tell you a lot of stories,” someone said. Stephanie jumped and looked at the man in the doorway, a tall and lanky man. He moved so quietly that she hadn’t known he was there, and with the light behind him she couldn’t see his face. She could see that his hair was red, though, and that he was wearing jeans and a shirt instead of a suit. This was the man who had been hiding behind the others.

She wasn’t sure what made her think he was hiding, except that he faded into the background so well that she was sure it had to be deliberate.

He turned to the side. “Would you like to come in?”

Stephanie hesitated for a moment. These were strangers, but this was Gordon’s house. They wouldn’t be up here, she reasoned, unless they were familiar with it. She walked up the stairs, sidled past the redheaded man, and stepped inside Gordon’s study. The walls were filled with the framed covers from his bestsellers and shared space with all manner of awards. One entire wall was made up of shelves, jammed with books. There were biographies and historical novels and science texts and psychology tomes, and battered little paperbacks stuck in-between. A lower shelf had magazines, literary reviews and quarterlies.

But the most interesting things in the room were the seven men. She was relieved to see that none of them were sitting in Gordon’s chair, the chair where he died. Instead they had brought up chairs from downstairs, or found places elsewhere around the room. All conversation had stopped when the redhead spoke, and now they were looking at her.

The man in the overcoat and scarf was standing against the bookcase. The scarf was still wrapped, the sunglasses still on, the fuzzy hair still poking out. His hands were gloved. He tilted his head when she entered. His equally faceless companion, the body-builder with the hat, was off to his side, pulling the brim down low so that even when Stephanie glanced at him from this close distance she couldn’t see his face. He was holding a glass filled with something amber—whiskey, she thought.

The others were nearer the desk. The crying man—Rover—was actually sitting _on_ the desk, legs swinging, and while his eyes were bright he was no longer crying. The blond and the man with the pretty face had both brought up chairs, and were sprawled in them with a sort of enviable loose grace, or had been. They both straightened up when she came in. All three of them were holding the same kind of squat, thick glasses the man with the hat was. Behind them, leaning against the wall behind the door, was the funeral director, and he too had a glass, except his was filled with milk of all things.

She glanced behind her. The redheaded man had left the door open but was standing next to it, and now she could see he was a bit older than the others. Old enough that he had a few flecks of grey in his hair. When she glanced around them again she saw the funeral director was going just slightly grey too.

“You must be one of Gordon’s nieces,” said the man with the velvet voice, and since none of the others’ mouths moved she supposed it must belong to the man with the scarf. Stephanie let the statement draw her attention back to him. He was easily the most curious person in the room. “You’re not stealing anything, you’re not breaking anything, so I’d guess you’re Stephanie.”

She nodded and took the opportunity to look at him more closely. He was tall, this man, tall and so thin he even made the redhead and the funeral director look well proportioned. She couldn’t see even the tiniest bit of his face beneath the scarf and sunglasses. At least with the man with the hat she could see the square edge of his jaw in the shadow.

“You were all friends of his,” she said, and just like him, she deliberately didn’t make it a question.

“We were,” he answered with a move of his head. This slight motion made her realise that the rest of his body was unnaturally still. “We’ve known him for years. I met him outside a bar in New York when I was over there, back when he had just published his first novel.”

Stephanie turned her head to look at the redheaded man. “You said you could tell me a lot of stories.”

“We could,” he said simply. He was leaning back against the wall just by the door, his arms folded and his eyes closed. She thought that if she needed to, she could get through the door before he reacted. Then again, she hadn’t once felt like she was in danger, even though she was in a room full of strange men and one of them was all but blocking the exit. They were Gordon’s friends.

She wanted to ask what had happened with the brunette woman, but then she looked at the crying man, at Rover, and heard herself say, “You know Fergus too.”

Stephanie expected him to be surprised or be annoyed. Instead he heaved a melodramatic sigh, and she recognised his voice as the one who’d sworn. “Oh, yes, that’s a relationship filled with trials, tribulations and endless nights of pining, coupled with hours of sneaking up his balconies, tossing stones at windows, and serenading from below.  It’s a cruel, cruel world, when soul-mates such as we must be parted.”

The blond choked into his glass. The man with the pretty face leaned back in his chair and laughed. Someone behind her was chuckling deeply. Stephanie just stared. “That,” she said, “is disgusting.”

Rover grinned. “You should have seen the look on Beryl’s face when I fed her that line.”

“And he didn’t even take pictures,” said the man with the pretty face as he shook his head. Stephanie mentally marked him as Erskine.

“It was a missed opportunity for which he still owes us,” said the funeral-director-who-drank-milk. He was the one with the quiet, raspy voice. That meant the man with the deep voice must be the man with the hat, because the blond didn’t look like he could own a voice that deep.

Stephanie decided she didn’t want to know what Rover owed them. “Are you writers too?”

“Sure,” said the blond with a flashing grin. “But the things I write aren’t for pretty young eyes like yours.”

Stephanie frowned. “Why not?”

“Mostly because it’s—”

“Terrible,” Erskine interrupted, shaking his head sadly. “Really awful. Leaving punctuation all over the places and commas dangling.”

“Sentences in need of rescuing,” Rover chimed in.

“Plot points run aground.”

“Characters made of cardboard.”

“Scenery too.”

“You’ve been talking to Gordon,” the blond accused. Erskine grinned.

“He said he kept a copy so he could have something to laugh at.”

“You’re cruel. I don’t know why I put up with you. And _you_.” Quick as a flash he dipped his fingers into his glass to throw an ice-cube at Rover. “Let that cool your ardent affections for this man not me, wife.”

“Husband,” corrected the funeral director.

“Ignore them,” said the man with the deep voice as they started arguing about who was the husband and who was the wife in their relationship, and Stephanie turned. She still couldn’t see the man’s face very well, but from the line of his cheek she thought he was smiling.

“Wife?” she asked without thinking.

“Oh, Rover and Dexter got married years ago.”

“What, to each other?”

The man shrugged his massive shoulders. “Well, they needed a reason to throw a party, didn’t they?”

He said it so matter-of-factly that it almost made perfect sense, and Stephanie found herself grinning in spite of herself. She could easily imagine Gordon being friends with these witty, charming men who married each other just to have an excuse to party.

“I’ve never heard of any of you before,” she said, and sounded disappointed.

“Gordon used to talk about you all the time,” observed the man with the velvet voice. “Boast about his little niece. He was an individual of character, your uncle. It seems that you are too.”

“You say that like you know me.”

“Strong-willed, intelligent, sharp-tongued, doesn’t suffer fools gladly … remind you of anyone?”

“Yes. Gordon.”

“Interesting,” said the man. “Because those are the exact words he used to describe you.” His gloved fingers dipped into his waistcoat and brought out an ornate pocketwatch on a delicate gold chain. His head tilted in a way that indicated he was looking at someone, but Stephanie couldn’t tell who. “How much longer do we have?”

It was, Stephanie thought, an odd question given he was the one holding the watch.

The redheaded man answered. “We should probably go, if we want to avoid another scuffle.”

As if his words were a cue the men near the desk stopped their good-natured argument almost mid-sentence, glancing toward him.

“And we were just getting to the good stuff,” Rover grumbled, putting his glass aside.

“I’m sure we’ll have plenty of other opportunities to gate-crash,” Dexter pointed out.

“This place is depressing anyhow.” Erskine drained his glass, and Dexter’s, and then set them down with a thud, rising with a languid sort of grace. “I’m ready to go, myself.”

The man with the scarf tucked away his watch. “Good luck in whatever you decide to do with your life, Stephanie.”

“Thank you,” Stephanie said dumbly as the man with the hat gave her a silent, friendly nod. “You too.”

She felt the man-with-the-scarf smile, though she could see no mouth, and watched as the men left.  Rover leapt playfully on the funeral director’s back as he passed through the door. The man staggered, twisted, and Rover thudded back into the wall with a wheeze just as they passed from view. She heard them clattering and laughing all the way down the stairs, and yet found she couldn’t take her eyes off where they had been. Who were they? She hadn’t gotten all of their names.

She crossed over to the door and stepped out, wondering how they had vanished from sight so quickly with all the noise they’d been making. She hurried down the stairs and reached the large hall without seeing anyone. She opened the front door just as a big black car turned out onto the road, followed by an old but well-kept blue pickup truck. Rover was sitting in the bed, leaning around the edge to the passenger’s window, and he waved cheerily back at her.

She watched them drive away, stayed there for a few moments, then reluctantly re-joined her extended family in the living-room, just in time to see Carol knock over a china plate.


	2. The will

Life at the Edgley household was fairly uneventful. Stephanie’s mother worked in a bank and her father owned a construction company, and she had no brothers or sisters, so the routine they had settled into was one of amiable convenience. But even so, there was always the voice at the back of her mind telling her that there should be more to her life than _this_ , more to her life than the small coastal town of Haggard. She just couldn’t figure out what that something was.

Her first year of secondary school had just come to a close and she was looking forward to the summer break. Stephanie didn’t like school. She found it difficult to get along with her classmates—not because they weren’t nice people, but simply because she had nothing in common with them. And she didn’t like teachers. She didn’t like the way they demanded respect they hadn’t earned. Stephanie had no problem doing what she was told, just so long as she was given a good reason why she should.

She had spent the first few days of the summer helping out her father, answering phones and sorting through the files in his office. If she wasn’t there, she was either down at the beach, swimming, or locked in her room listening to music. She was in her room, trying to find the charger for her mobile phone, when her mother knocked on the door and stepped in. She was still dressed in the sombre clothes she had worn to the funeral, though Stephanie had tied back her long dark hair and changed into her usual jeans and trainers within two minutes of returning to the house.

“We got a call from Gordon’s solicitor,” her mother said, sounding a little surprised. “They want us at the reading of the will.”

“Oh,” Stephanie responded. “What do you think he left you?”

“Well, we’ll find out tomorrow. You too, because you’re coming with us.”’

“I am?” Stephanie said with a slight frown.

“Your name’s on the list, that’s all I know. We’re leaving at ten, okay?”

“I’m supposed to be helping Dad in the morning.”

“He called Gladys, asked her to fill in for a few hours, as a favour. She said yes, as long as she could wear the peanut suit.”

They left for the solicitor’s at a quarter past ten the next morning, fifteen minutes later than planned thanks to Stephanie’s father’s casual disregard for punctuality. The drive took a little under an hour and they arrived twenty minutes late. They were led up a flight of creaky stairs to a small office too warm to be comfortable, with a large window that offered a wonderful view of the brick wall across the street. Fergus and Beryl were there, and Beryl showed her displeasure at having been kept waiting by looking at her watch and scowling. Fergus’s head jerked up as they entered, and Stephanie would have almost thought he looked relieved when he saw them if that wasn’t so ridiculous. Stephanie’s parents took the remaining chairs and Stephanie stood behind them as the solicitor peered at them through cracked spectacles.

“Now can we get started?” Beryl snapped.

Mr Fedgewick, a short man with the girth and appearance of a sweaty bowling ball, tried smiling.

“We still have, er … a few more people to wait on,” he said and Fergus went very still.

“Who?” he demanded, and he sounded angry. He also, Stephanie fancied, almost sounded afraid. As if he knew who it was and didn’t want it to be. The thought made her heart beat faster. “There can’t be anyone else. We are the only siblings Gordon had. Who is it?”

“It’s not some charity, is it?” Beryl snapped. “I don’t trust charities. They always want something from you.”

“It’s—it’s not a charity,” Mr Fedgewick said, and then glanced down at his list with a frown. “I don’t think. One of them did say they might be a little late.”

“Who said?” Stephanie’s father asked, and the solicitor paged through the file with the manner of a man trying to buy some time.

“He didn’t say,” he admitted delicately. “But it seems we are waiting on representatives of a group called the Dead Men.”

“Well, who on Earth are they?” Beryl asked, irritated. “They sound like—they sound like—Fergus, what do they sound like?”

There was no answer, and it took a moment before they all looked at Fergus. He had gone pale, pale with anger and something else Stephanie couldn’t recognise, and said nothing. After a tense moment it was Fedgewick who answered.

“I really couldn’t say,” Fedgewick said, his paltry excuse for a smile failing miserably under the glare he was getting from Beryl. “But I’m sure they’ll be along soon.”

Beryl narrowed her eyes as much as possible without her mascara obscuring her sight. “How are you sure?”

Fedgewick faltered, unable to offer a reason, and was only rescued by a hubbub from outside the door.

“Hurry up. We’re late, we’re late, for a very important date.”

“Dexter, if you start singing I will hit you.”

“Why? I have an amazing voice.”

“And yet you never use it.”

“You can’t tell, but I’m ignoring you.”

“Ants in your pants much, Dex?”

“It’s a will-reading, Erskine. That means presents. Presents from _Gordon_. I hope he left me the number to that pretty little blonde in Paris. I wouldn’t mind giving her a house-call.” Stephanie was already grinning as Dexter swept into the room, his suit rather rumpled and hair artfully tousled. He didn’t even pause at the sight of the rest of them. He just waved as he passed. “Hello, all. Sorry we’re late; I had a prior engagement.”

“We had trouble finding which lady’s house he was visiting,” Erskine translated as he ambled in behind the blond, grinning and paying about as much attention as Dexter had been. Dexter slouched against the far wall and shrugged, lifting his hands in an odd fashion. Anyone else would have spread their hands outward, supplicating, but he raised his palms to himself.

“What can I say? She was gorgeous. And distracting.”

Beryl made a strangled noise as, one by one, the strange gentlemen from Gordon’s office entered. Behind Erskine and Dexter was the funeral director whose name Stephanie hadn’t gotten. His face was still hard to read, but his mouth was turned upward at the corners. Behind him came the man with the hat, still wearing his black coat, and then behind _him_ was the man with the tan coat and the scarf.

“Sorry we’re late,” said the last as he stepped aside from the door. “It was unavoidable, I’m afraid.”

Everyone else in the room stared at him and his equally covered friend, stared at the hat and the scarf and the gloves and the sunglasses and the wild fuzzy hair. It was a glorious day outside; not the kind of weather to be wrapped up like that. Stephanie looked closer at the hair. From this distance it didn’t even seem real.

The solicitor cleared his throat. “Um, you are the Dead Men?”

“At your service,” the man said. Stephanie could listen to that voice all day. Her mother, uncertain as she was, had smiled her greetings, but her father was looking at from one to the next with an expression of wariness she had never seen on his face before. After a moment the expression left him and he nodded politely and looked back to Mr Fedgewick. Beryl was still staring, but Fergus’s expression was oddly blank. He seemed to be avoiding Stephanie’s father’s gaze.

“Well, us and the two slowpokes outside, and the idiot who was supposed to show up but never did,” Erskine said, jerking a thumb toward the door. He slid easily past the man with the scarf and poked his head out. “Are you coming in or what? Dex has a point, you know. Presents! Presents from beyond the grave!”

“Do you mind?” Beryl said stiffly. “Have some dignity for the dead!”

Erskine laughed as he withdrew his head. So did Dexter, and the man with the hat and the funeral director chuckled. The man with the scarf tilted his head in a way that might have been amused. Stephanie wanted to ask what was so funny, but a moment later Rover came in, his shoulders hunched in a very sheepish way.

“You!” Beryl looked a mix between outraged and apprehensive.

Rover waved. “Hey, Ber. I know, I know, my exceeding good looks and wonderful personality are a threat to your happy marriage, but I _was_ invited. Hey, Fergy.”

Stephanie almost choked, and that was _before_ she caught the startled expression on her father’s face.

“Rover,” Fergus said coldly, and turned pointedly toward Fedgewick. Stephanie wanted, very badly, to ask exactly what had gone wrong between them, because she doubted it was a torrid affair, when the last man came in—the redhead who barely seemed to exist. He closed the door quietly and leaned back against it. The way Beryl glared at him made Stephanie wonder if he weren’t the ‘friend’ Crystal had mentioned.

Other than Rover, who was now dressed in jeans and T-shirt advertising the Beatles with some sort of chain around his neck, they were all dressed in much the same sorts of clothes as the day before. Why, Stephanie wondered, were they called the Dead Men?

Fedgewick cleared his throat again. “Okay then; let’s get down to business, now that we’re all here. Excellent. Good. This, of course, being the last will and testament of Gordon Edgley, revised last almost one year ago. Gordon has been a client of mine for the past twenty years, and in that time, I got to know him well, so let me pass on to you, his family and … and friends … my deepest, deepest—”

“Yes, alright,” Beryl interrupted, leaning forward impatiently. “Let’s get to the important part, since we’re already running behind schedule.” The glare she levelled at the Dead Men said who she blamed for that. “Who gets the house? And who gets the villa? Who gets the _fortune_? And the royalties?”

Stephanie glanced at the Dead Men from the corner of her eye. They were listening, but there seemed to be something going on at the same time, something no one else could see. Erskine was grinning. Dexter was whistling soundlessly and looking up at the roof. The redhead had his eyes closed and arms folded. The man with the hat seemed to be looking at Dexter, and the funeral director seemed to be keeping an eye on Rover, who was browsing the solicitor’s bookcase. The man with the scarf was standing back against the wall, hands in his pockets, looking at the solicitor. Well, he _seemed_ to be looking at the solicitor; with those sunglasses he could have been looking anywhere. Stephanie returned her gaze to Fedgewick as he picked up a page from his desk and read from it.

“‘To my brother Fergus and his beautiful wife Beryl,’” he read, and Stephanie did her best to hide a grin, “‘I leave my car, and a gift.’”

Fergus and Beryl blinked. Beryl roused herself first. “We already have a car!”

“We do already have a car,” Fergus repeated, sounding confused but as if he was trying to be furious.

Beryl shuffled so far forward she was almost on the desk. “This gift,” she demanded, “is it the fortune?”

Mr Fedgewick coughed nervously, and took a small box from his desk drawer and slid it towards them. They looked at this box. They looked some more. Beryl snatched it off the desk and tore the lid open.

“What is it?” Fergus asked in a small voice, and his head jerked as if he was trying not to look behind him.

All colour had drained from Beryl’s face and her hands were shaking. She blinked hard to keep the tears away, then she turned the box for everyone to see, and everyone saw the brooch, about the size of a drinks coaster, nestled in the plush cushion. Fergus stared at it. He looked vaguely sick.

“It doesn’t even have any jewels on it,” Beryl said, her voice strangled. Fergus didn’t answer. Instead he turned to Fedgewick.

“What else do we get?” he asked, sounding as sick as he looked.

Mr Fedgewick tried another smile which fell very flat, and he looked down at the page. “‘Also to my brother Fergus: I know you and Rover were conspiring. Try not to blame him. Things could have been worse.’”

“Blame him?” Beryl said shrilly, and her voice rose another octave again, her glare turning to her husband and the man pretending not to pay attention near the bookshelf. “ _Conspiring_?!”

Fergus said nothing, but Stephanie noticed he snuck a glance toward Rover and felt a sudden pang of doubt. It wasn’t actually a torrid affair, was it? They both had spouses, after all, and not each other.

Fedgewick returned his attention to the will, trying to ignore the marital tension. “‘To Dexter Vex, my partner in crime, I leave this published manuscript.’”

“No.” An incredulous smile crossed Dexter’s face as Fedgewick reached into the desk and pulled out a thin paperback novel with a bright cover, sliding it across the desk. To Stephanie’s interest, the solicitor seemed rather red and looked everywhere _but_ the book. Dexter all but snatched it up, glanced at the front, at the back, and then broke into peals of such laughter that he sank against the wall. “ _Yes_.”

“He _didn’t_.” Erskine stole the book, took a look at the cover and let out a snort which had his shoulders quivering, holding it out for Rover to take. A moment later Rover broke into laughter louder than Dexter’s.

“I already know what’s in it,” the funeral director said when Rover tried to offer it to him.

“So do I,” agreed the man with the hat, but Stephanie could tell he was grinning.

“Just don’t ask him to read it out aloud,” said the redheaded man, and even he was wearing a small smile, his closed eyes flanked by the kind of crow’s feet left by good humour.

“Oh, well, if you insist—” Dexter made a grab for the book, but the funeral director stole it neatly out of Rover’s hand and tucked it under his arm. “Hey, Anton, that’s _mine_.”

“I’ll give it back to you after class,” Anton said with a straight face, and Fedgewick coughed, then went on.

“‘To Erskine Ravel, my other partner in crime, I leave my special address book. I’m sure you’ll find a lady in there willing to put up with you for an hour or two.’”

This time Beryl let out a strangled objection as the book changed hands. Erskine was grinning as he leafed through its pages. “I knew he loved me the best.”

“I’m almost jealous,” Dexter said, eyeing the book. “But I think it’s safe to say that he loved _me_ the best. He got my story published. He _improved_ on it and _then_ got it published.”

“Fortunate, or it would have only been good as tinder,” Anton observed.

The man with the hat shook his head. “It still counts. Dex needs as much help lighting fires as he can get.”

“That depends on the kind of fire.”

“‘To Anton Shudder, who owns the best hotel I’ve had the pleasure of visiting, I leave my collection of first-edition books. Consider them a tip for exemplary service. They’ll look good behind your desk.’”

He owned a hotel? Stephanie stared as Anton inclined his head in acknowledgement, a pleased smile on his face. All of Gordon’s first-edition books were autographed. As a set they’d be worth a fortune. He always joked that he might need the money in his later years, when the stocks fell through and he lost all of his.

“Oh, so _that’s_ why you’re not letting me have my book back,” Dexter said in the tone of someone who’d just made an amusing realisation. “Anton, you scamp. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

Stephanie expected Anton to get embarrassed, or at least annoyed. Instead he shot Dexter a smile that bordered on mischievous. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Vex. If you like, I could show you.”

“Hey now, should I be getting jealous?” Rover demanded, turning on his heel. “I think I should be getting jealous. That’s _my_ wife you’re hitting on, Shudder.”

“It isn’t my fault you’re not enough man for him.”

Beryl, Stephanie saw with interest, was red in the face and audibly choking, while Fergus had his head in one hand with the resignation of someone who had long since stopped fighting against an acquaintance’s personal foibles. When she glanced at her parents she saw, to her surprise, that they were both grinning, her father quite obviously and her mother with one hand over her mouth.

“‘To Ghastly Bespoke, the finest tailor in the world, I leave my wardrobe. It came with the house, and is at least as old. Don’t think I didn’t notice you eyeing it every time you came to visit.’” The man in the hat laughed, and Stephanie caught a glimpse of that square jaw and an odd sort of ridgedness within the shadow, like a scar. “‘I also leave you a good chunk of the historical lore I’ve gathered over the years. They’d make fine additions to your family’s collection.’”

“History,” Rover said, shaking his head sadly. “Of all the things in his house you could have asked for, Ghastly, and all you wanted is little pieces of history.”

“Some of us find them useful, Larrikin.”

Rover opened his mouth to retort. Fedgewick went on hurriedly.

“‘To Rover Larrikin, I leave my boat.’”

“He what?” Rover said instead, clearly startled.

“ _He_ gets the boat?” Beryl demanded shrilly, pointing at Rover. Stephanie looked at him, at this man in worn sneakers and jeans ragged at the hems and a well-loved Beatles T-shirt, and tried to imagine him on Gordon’s gleaming yacht. It was easier than she thought it would be. “Why does _he_ get the boat?!”

“‘You have a habit of reminding a man of the most important things in life. I know you were conspiring with Fergus, and have been all these years, and I can only thank you for it. You’ve always liked my boat. It’s yours. Maybe you can teach Fergus how to not get seasick.’”

A slow grin spread over Rover’s face. “I got the _boat_.”

“That means you can stop freeloading off me,” Anton observed, but Rover shook his head at once.

“And leave you to seduce my wife? I see through your plot, Shudder. The boat can be our holiday-home.”

“Just don’t let Skulduggery drive it,” Mr Bespoke said, “or he’ll steer it into the dock.”

“You still haven’t let that go?” grumbled the man with the scarf, and Stephanie turned to look at him. What kind of name was _Skulduggery_? They all had strange names, but Skulduggery? “I was young and foolish. The young are allowed to be foolish.”

“It was my mother’s boat,” Mr Bespoke pointed out.

“She took it better than you.”

“It was going to become _my_ boat.”

“You haven’t seemed to miss it.”

“‘To Saracen Rue, my mysterious knight in armour, I leave you a subscription to _Make Up Artist_ and _Irish Brides_. I’ll have them sent to your father’s house.’” At least three of the Dead Men laughed, but when Fedgewick looked up to see which of them was claiming this ‘gift’, no one did.

“He isn’t here,” Skulduggery said. “He has a habit of being late, but he usually turns up. Eventually.”

“In this case he’ll wind up being at least two days late,” said the redhead. “He’s in Australia.”

“You said, but why on Earth would he be in _Australia_?” Erskine protested. “It’s full of _Australians_.”

The redhead’s mouth tilted up. “Quote unquote, ‘I just know I’ll find a pretty little chick’.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll make sure Saracen gets this fine, upstanding bequest,” Dexter assured Fedgewick. Fedgewick hesitated and then decided that he didn’t really want to pursue the issue.

“‘To Mr Hopeless, the gentlest man I’ve ever known, I leave the acreage of meadow on the edge of my property. You know the one; where the bees never stop swarming. Use it in good health.”

What was with these men and their weird names? Stephanie wondered as the redhead broke into a grin, opening his eyes for the first time since he’d entered. He wasn’t the only one happy about his bequest. Nearly every one of the Dead Men perked up.

“You _do_ promise to invite us over to sample the honey, right?” Erskine demanded. “Because if you don’t, we’ll just turn up anyway and raid your honey pots and steal all the honeycomb.”

Mr Hopeless laughed. “Well, I can’t have that. I suppose I’ll just have to have you all for dinner at some point after they’ve finished swarming.”

“You’re a bee-keeper?” Stephanie’s mother asked with interest. “I always did wonder where Gordon got his honey from. It’s never been a market brand, but he’s never been the type to buy from specialist stores.”

“I am, but I don’t sell to big stores. I gave him pots in exchange for the hives which swarm in the meadow.”

“Descry’s a bee-whisperer,” Rover told her with a grin. “No one can charm bees like Descry can.”

“If you keep on like that, Rover, I’ll think Dexter’s the one with cause to worry,” Mr Hopeless observed.

“I am worried,” Dexter agreed. “I’m very worried. Wife, whatever are you trying to do to me?”

Before another argument could ensue, Fedgewick read on, anxiously as if he was getting near to the end of his list. “‘To my good friend and guide Skulduggery Pleasant I leave the following advice. Your path is your own, and I have no wish to sway you, but sometimes the greatest enemy we can face is ourselves, and the greatest battle is against the darkness within. There is a storm coming, and sometimes the key to safe harbour is hidden from us, and sometimes it is right before our eyes.’”

Everyone joined Stephanie in staring at Mr Pleasant. She had known there was something different about him, about all of them; she had known it the first moment she saw them. But there was something particularly different about Mr Pleasant—something exotic, something mysterious, something _dangerous_. For his part, his head dipped lower and that was the only reaction he gave.

“What does _that_ mean?” Erskine asked, and although his tone was upbeat his expression was worried. Mr Pleasant shrugged, and, as one, the Dead Men looked at Mr Hopeless. He looked back and said nothing.

For a long moment there was silence. Then, finally, Fedgewick cleared his throat once more and read on. “‘To my other brother, Desmond, the lucky one of the family, I leave to you your wife. I think you might like her.’” Stephanie saw her parents clasp each other’s hands and smile sadly. “‘So now you’ve successfully stolen my girlfriend, maybe you’d like to take her to my villa in France, which I am also leaving to you.’”

“They get the villa?” Beryl cried, jumping to her feet.

“Beryl,” Fergus said, “please …”

“Do you know how much that villa is worth?” Beryl continued, looking ready to lunge at Stephanie’s parents. “We get a brooch—they get a villa? There’s only three of them! We’ve got Carol and Crystal! We have more! We could do with the extra space! Why do _they_ deserve the villa?” She thrust the box at them. “Swap!”

“Mrs Edgley, please retake your seat or we shall be unable to continue,” Mr Fedgewick said, and eventually, after much bug-eyed glaring, Beryl sat down.

“Thank you,” Fedgewick said, looking like he had had quite enough excitement for one day. He licked his lips, adjusted his glasses, and peered again at the will. “‘If there is one regret that I have had in my life, it is that I have never fathered any children. There are times when I consider myself fortunate, but there are also times when it breaks my heart. And so, finally, to my niece Stephanie.’”

Stephanie’s eyes widened. What? _She_ was getting something? Leaving the villa to her parents wasn’t enough for Gordon?

Fedgewick went on, “‘The world is bigger than you know and scarier than you might imagine. The only currency worth anything is being true to yourself, and the only goal worth seeking is finding out who you truly are.’”

She could feel Beryl glaring at her and tried to ignore her, but something was odd. She snuck a glance at the Dead Men, and every one of them looked sombre for the first time since she’d seen them at the funeral the day before. The sight made a shiver run up her spine, so she returned her attention to Fedgewick.

“‘Make your parents proud, and make them glad to have you living under their roof, because I leave to you my property and possessions, my assets and my royalties, to be inherited on the day you turn eighteen. I’d just like to take this opportunity to say that, in my own way, I love you all, even those I don’t particularly like. That’s you, Beryl.’”

Fedgewick took off his spectacles and looked up.

Stephanie became aware that everyone was staring at her and she hadn’t a clue what she was supposed to say. Fergus was rather pale and Beryl was pointing one long bony finger at her, trying to speak but failing. Her parents were looking at her in stunned surprise, and the Dead Men, when they weren’t looking at her, were looking at each other. They weren’t surprised, she saw. But they were serious, and that made the chill down her back worse. Only Skulduggery Pleasant moved, walking behind her and gently touching her arm.

“Congratulations,” he said, and turned toward the door, doffing his hat. “Shall we go? We still have a lot to do. And we need to try and contact Saracen. The telephone didn’t work, so perhaps smoke-signals.”

“We do, don’t we?” Erskine leapt on the cue, shouldering himself up off the wall. “Plenty to do, people to see … I have to investigate my new friends.” He proffered the address book in his hand.

“Wait a moment; I need an address to send your copies of the will, so you know what you ought to be picking up.” Fedgewick rifled through the pages on his desk.

“It doesn’t matter,” Mr Bespoke said, pulling the hat lower and straightening. “We already know.”

“But—”

“Just give us a copy now?” Erskine paused by the desk, holding out his hand, and after a reluctant moment Fedgewick found a sheaf of papers and put it into his hand.

“I’ll see you later to take you sailing, Fergy,” Rover said cheerfully as he passed, clapping a hand to Fergus’s shoulder.

“I get seasick,” Fergus mumbled, as if it was a token excuse against a force he knew he couldn’t resist.

“So does Hopeless.” Rover waved a hand.

“Which means you are _not_ getting me on your new boat.”

Dexter sidled closer to Shudder as they moved toward the door, eyeing the book the hotel proprietor kept pointedly on his opposite side.

“Class is over, Teacher,” he said. “May I have my book back?”

“No.”

One by one they left the room. Mr Hopeless was the last one to leave, and Stephanie felt his eyes on her back right up until he had. As soon as the door clicked shut behind them, Beryl found her voice.

“HER?” she screamed. “HER?!”


	3. A man apart

That afternoon while Stephanie and her mother took the fifteen-minute drive from Haggard to Gordon’s estate to explore Stephanie’s new house, Fergus was reluctantly receiving a visitor at his own.

“Hurry up and come in, then,” he snapped, turning around and making for the kitchen. Rover stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind him. “Beryl’s taken the twins out for a condolence shopping trip.”

“You know, Fergy, there are times I wonder why you put up with her,” Rover said ironically but with only a tiny smile. The kind that wasn’t amused.

“She’s normal,” Fergus said, picking out two teacups and putting them down on the table.

“That’s a matter of debate, really.” Rover pulled out a chair but leaned on it instead of sitting down.

“She’s not like you,” Fergus said shortly, turning away to switch on the kettle, and Rover almost missed it as he added quietly, “and she’s not like me.”

Rover sighed. “You’re not like me either. _Gordon_ isn’t—wasn’t—like me.”

“He came closer than he should have,” Fergus said darkly, taking out a small earthenware pot and dribbling a bit of honey into each of the teacups. Hopeless never did store his honey in anything other than earthenware pots. He said plastic ruined the flavour. He would know.

“But he wasn’t,” Rover insisted. This was a conversation they’d had a lot over the years. Eventually it had even sunk in, but they still had it. Fergus was the kind of man who needed reassurance. For several minutes they waited in silence for the kettle to perk. Then Fergus spoke again.

“What did he mean? His message to your friend? To Stephanie?”

“I don’t know,” Rover admitted. “I don’t think even Skulduggery knows. The only one who would is Descry, and he isn’t saying anything.”

“You promised,” Fergus said abruptly, setting down the sugar-bowl with a clink. “You promised that you’d keep all of—that—away from my family. From _Desmond_ and his family.”

“Gordon didn’t,” was Rover’s simple answer. “If he started dropping hints to Stephanie, we didn’t know.”

“He was healthy.”

“I know.”

“There was no reason for him to die.”

“I know.”

“He was murdered. By one of _you_.”

“Probably,” Rover said quietly, “and we’re going to find out who did it, and we’re going to find out why.”

“And then?”

Rover looked Fergus squarely in the eyes, his face blank in a way that looked unnatural on a face so prone to laughter. “And then we’ll probably kill them.”

Fergus’s expression was hard. “Good.”

He poured the tea.

 

Stephanie screamed as a fist smashed through the window by her head, showering the carpet with glass. She stumbled back as the man outside started climbing in, glaring at her with blazing eyes, unmindful of the glass that cut into him. The moment one foot touched the floor inside the house Stephanie was bolting out of the room, over to the front door, fumbling at the lock.

It was past midnight, and she was alone in Gordon’s house with a man who threatened to kill her.

Strong hands grabbed her from behind. She screamed again as she was lifted off her feet and carried back. She kicked out, slamming a heel into his shin. The man grunted and let go and Stephanie twisted. She tried to swing her poker into his face but he caught it and pulled it from her grasp. One hand went to her throat and Stephanie gagged, unable to breathe as the man forced her back into the living-room.

He pushed her into an armchair, leaning over her, and no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t break his grip.

“Now then,” the man said, his mouth contorting into a sneer, “why don’t you give me the key, little girlie?”

And that’s when the front door was flung off its hinges and Skulduggery Pleasant burst into the house. Following quickly behind was Dexter Vex.

The man cursed and released Stephanie to swing the poker, but Skulduggery moved straight to him and hit him so hard Stephanie thought the man’s head might come off. He hit the ground and tumbled backwards, but rolled to his feet as Skulduggery moved in again.

Dexter appeared at Stephanie’s side and bowed, holding out his hand. “My lady, may I have this dance?” Stephanie reached out and took it, and he pulled her up off the armchair. She stumbled and he caught her, turning her towards the door. “Come on, let’s go.”

Skulduggery glanced over. “Not if you’re intending to drive _my_ car, you’re not.”

The man launched himself forward while Skulduggery’s head was turned. Stephanie opened her mouth to shout a warning, but abruptly the man went shooting sideways and backwards over the couch.

“Nice shot,” Dexter said, and Erskine Ravel buffed his fingers, sitting on the sill of the broken window.

“Thank you, I thought so. By the way, Skulduggery, I found our prowler. He’s right over there.” Erskine pointed at the man getting to his feet.

“Do you know who I am?” the man snarled once he’d finished cursing.

“Haven’t the foggiest,” Skulduggery said, facing forward again. “Do you know who he is, Erskine, Dex?”

“A flibbertigibbet?”

“A will o’ the wisp?”

“A clown?”

They said it so promptly and with such a rhythmic cadence that Stephanie was sure it was a quote, but couldn’t think what they would possibly be quoting at a time like this. Her head felt as if it hadn’t stopped whirling. How had that man just suddenly flown aside like that? What had Dexter meant by ‘nice shot’? Erskine couldn’t have done it, surely?

“That’s what I thought.” Skulduggery tilted his head. “Your name wouldn’t happen to be Maria, would it?”

The man’s face was almost puce, but he grinned defiantly. “Well, I know about _you_ ,” he said. “My master told me about all of _you_ , Dead Men, and you’re going to have to do a lot more than make witty jokes to stop me.”

To Stephanie’s surprise she felt Dexter go tense and start to shift forward beside her. Skulduggery only shrugged and Stephanie watched in amazement as a ball of fire flared up in his hand. He hurled it and the man was suddenly covered in flame, but instead of screaming, the man tilted his head back and roared with laughter. The fire may have engulfed him, but it wasn’t burning him.

“More!” he laughed. “Give me more!”

“If you insist.”

“Sure, why not.”

Skulduggery took an old-fashioned revolver from his jacket and fired, the gun bucking slightly with the recoil. The bullet hit the man in the shoulder and he screamed, then tried to run and tripped. Erskine, his expression sardonic, thrust out his hand and squeezed. The man fell to his knees and choked, his eyes bulging. He looked like he was going to throw up, except that a thin wail rose from him as he tried to scream instead. Stephanie stared, but then Dexter yanked her around, putting his body between them.

“Come on. Into the kitchen.”

“What is he doing?” Stephanie asked, letting him guide her away but still staring in the direction of the man even though she couldn’t see him. He was gagging now, an odd gargling noise interspersed with watery shrieks of pain. Dexter didn’t even glance behind him.

“Getting information,” he said, and jostled her into the kitchen despite her trying to see over his shoulder.

Just as they passed through the doorway she heard Skulduggery say, “Erskine, stop, or he’ll fall apart before he can tell us anything.”

Dexter closed the door and pushed Stephanie firmly down onto a chair, and went to the counter. “Tea?”

All Stephanie’s life she had longed for something else, for something to take her out of the humdrum world she knew—and now that it looked like it might actually happen, she didn’t have one clue what to do. Questions were tripping over themselves in her head, each one vying to be the one that was asked first. So many of them. She watched Dexter fill the kettle and set out two mugs, and tried to listen to the voices outside. The man had stopped screaming and people were talking, but she couldn’t hear words. The first question came out.

“What’s happening?”

“A man just tried to attack you in your new home,” Dexter informed her as he found the large pot of honey Gordon had always kept on the counter near the fridge and which Stephanie knew, now, had come from one of these strange men who could do miraculous things. He ladled a spoonful into each cup. “Not that I understand _why_ , being a charming young lady you are, but there you are. Some people are just animals.” He shrugged and Stephanie opened her mouth to ask another question, whatever it was, but he went on before she could.

“Did he get your name?”

“What?”

“Your name. Did he ask it? Did you tell him?” He turned and he looked serious, now, even worried. There was so much of it in his expression that she stared. He barely knew her. Why would he be so worried? Had Gordon really told them that much about her?

“Uh, no ...”

Relief replaced the worry. “Good. If he’d known your name he could have made you do things you didn’t want to do. People can do that with someone’s given name. Did he say anything? What did he want?”

“He kept asking about a key. Who is he? Who are _you_? What’s going on? Besides me getting attacked?”

“Well, you know me.” Dexter grinned at her. “Writer debonair. As for him, let’s just call him Maria.”

“Mr Pleasant shot him.”

“Mr Pleasant—” Dexter laughed. “Yes, he has a habit of doing that to people he doesn’t like.”

“And threw fire at him.”

“He has a habit of doing that too.”

“And Mr Ravel was making him choke.”

“It’s this little trick he uses when he disapproves of an unfunny joke.”

Stephanie’s head felt a bit light, but she was sitting down and she told herself firmly that she wasn’t going to faint. After a moment the light-headedness began to pass. “They’re hurting him out there, aren’t they?”

Dexter tilted his head and rolled his eyes upward as if listening. “I don’t hear any screams, do you?”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

Dexter smiled a bit uncomfortably, but the kettle began to whistle and he turned away to pour the tea. “You’re a very smart girl, you know. Too smart to get involved in all this.”

He said it oddly. Not as if he was complimenting her, but as if her being smart was a drawback. Stephanie wanted to tell him that he was wrong, because all of a sudden the humdrumness of her life had been entirely shattered, and even under the shock she felt an intense curiosity.

“They used magic, didn’t they? The fire, and blasting the door, and choking him?”

“You’re very observant, too. Milk?” He glanced over his shoulder and she nodded, so he poured in some milk, gave the tea a good stir and brought the cup over. She took a sip—it was hot, but nice. She meant to say ‘thank you’, but something else came out instead.

“Can you do that too?”

“Conjure fire and blast doors and choke people? Don’t be ridiculous. _My_ magic is awesomer than that.”

In spite of everything, Stephanie found herself smiling. He didn’t act like a man whose friends could be torturing someone just outside the kitchen. Just like that, the thought wiped the smile away and she glanced toward the door. She couldn’t hear anything now.

The door opened so suddenly that Stephanie jumped, and Skulduggery came in. So did Erskine, and he looked angry and chagrined at once. Dexter straightened up. “Did he tell you anything?”

“Nothing useful, really,” Erskine muttered.

“Is he still out there?” Stephanie asked, rising and making to look over their shoulders, but Erskine closed the door before she could, not looking her in the eye.

“Sort-of.”

Stephanie frowned. “Sort-of?”

“He’s sort-of all over the place.”

Stephanie paused. Fire hadn’t done anything and she hadn’t heard anything explode. Could magic make things explode?

A moment later she decided that was the strangest serious thought she’d ever had. “How? Besides magic?”

Skulduggery and Erskine looked at Dexter, and he shrugged, making that odd supplicating gesture. “What? She asked. What was I meant to say? ‘No, you’re imagining things’? That didn’t go over well with Gordon.”

“Of course not,” Skulduggery said. “Gordon was far too persistent to let go, and the two of you didn’t really help by bursting into my hotel room drunk and wearing nothing but tea-cosies.”

“Why would that not help Gordon stop asking about magic?” Stephanie asked, half intrigued and half revolted.

“The part where they came in through the window.”

Dexter waved his hand. “Doors are for people with no imagination.”

“ _You’d_ think that, with how many of them you use to escape the wrath of some lady’s father or brother.”

“Not husbands, of course,” said Erskine with a lopsided smile at the other man. “Dexter doesn’t go for married women.” He sighed melodramatically. “Alas, that means I can’t either. Not that I would, after that one time when the husband I didn’t know about came after me with a hacksaw.”

“How did you—” Stephanie started to ask, and then stopped. They were very good at talking. They had almost made her forget she had asked another question. “How come he’s all over the place?”

The three men looked at one another. Finally Skulduggery answered. “Some kinds of magic don’t come cheap,” he said. “As you saw, your attacker made himself impervious to fire, and he was probably very proud of himself for it. Unfortunately for him, the cost of that little spell was that a large amount of water would be lethal.”

Stephanie frowned. “But there wasn’t any water anywhere near him.”

“Actually,” Erskine said, and his expression was a mix of sheepish and grim, “everyone has an average of forty litres of water in their bodies.”

“Erskine is particularly good at manipulating body water,” Skulduggery explained.

“I just didn’t think he’d dissolve that easily,” Erskine muttered.

Stephanie stared, tried not to look too green, and failed. “That’s disgusting.”

“That’s magic,” Skulduggery said with a shrug, and the motion was oddly fluid. “Every spell has a hidden snag.” He took out his pocket-watch and his head jerked back. “Wow, look at the time. We’ve got to go.”

“Go? Go where?” Stephanie stood up.

“Things to do, I’m afraid. Number one is finding out why that nice gentleman was sent here, and number two is finding out who sent him.”

“We _know_ who sent him,” Erskine muttered.

“One might say you’re just a bit biased, Erskine.”

“And you’re not? Who else has his underlings call him _master_ , anyway?”

“As I recall,” Skulduggery said, tilting his head, “you said that _you_ would, if you ever got underlings.”

“It doesn’t count. I’m still working on that part.”

“You can’t leave me alone,” Stephanie said in case they were trying to distract her again, and Skulduggery turned his head toward her.

“Yes,” he corrected, “we can. But we’re not going to. _I’m_ going to do some investigating. That’s what detectives do, you know. Investigate.”

“You’re a detective?” Stephanie looked him up and down. He didn’t look like a detective.

“Oh, yes. I solve mysteries.”

“Really?”

“Quite good at it too. But it means I can’t stay here, which means that one of _you_ should.” The last was said to Erskine and Dexter, who looked at each other.

“Let’s see, go out and probably get shot at or stay here and speak to a charming young lady.” Erskine held out his hands and weighed up invisible objects. “I’m not sure there’s much of a contest, really.”

“What if _I_ wanted to stay here with the charming young lady?” Dexter demanded.

“If you haven’t sweet-talked her in the ten minutes you’ve already had, you haven’t got a chance, Vex. It’s my turn.”

They were really very funny, but Stephanie made herself keep looking at Skulduggery. She was fairly sure she was looking back, but she couldn’t be certain. “You can’t leave me,” she said again, and he tilted his head at her.

“Why not? I’m not leaving you _alone_ , although I admit, one of these two may not be much better.”

“Because.” She jumped forward suddenly and snatched his hat off his head. He jerked back at the same time and even though she managed to get his hat, she stumbled in pulling away and felt a rustle as all his hair came off his head, along with the clatter of his sunglasses. She turned as she fell against the wall, startled by the frizziness in her hand, and then looked up. And froze.

When she yanked off his hat and his hair, and knocked off his glasses, she had dislodged his scarf too. With those trappings gone it was quite obvious that he had no flesh, he had no skin, he had no eyes and he had no face.

All he had was a skull for a head.

Stephanie stared, feeling light-headed again. Out of the corner of her eyes she saw Erskine and Dexter wincing, but she couldn’t tear her gaze away long enough to actually look.

“That probably wasn’t a good idea,” Skulduggery said. His jaw moved up and down as he spoke. He reached up to rearrange his scarf, and bent to pick up his sunglasses.

Stephanie pressed her back against the wall, clutching his hat and wig. “You’re a skeleton,” she said quietly.

“I am indeed,” he said.

“It’s a new fashion statement,” Dexter offered.

“It’s very chic.” Erskine nodded. “All the rage with that undead Twilight crowd. He’s a cradle-robber.”

The light-headedness was definitely making a return. “He’s a _skeleton_ ,” she said to them without looking.

“We had noticed that, yes,” Erskine agreed.

“Nothing wrong with being a skeleton,” Dexter said. “It makes him very easy to shop for.”

“Mr Pleasant,” Stephanie said, and her knees shook, “ _you’re a skeleton_.”

“Yes. I am, as you say, a skeleton. I have been one for a few years now.” Skulduggery tilted his head. “You look like you might faint.”

Stephanie nodded slowly and then shook her head, pushing herself up against the wall and clutching his hat tighter. “I can’t faint. You’ll take back your hat. I need it.”

“Whatever for?”

“I’m holding it hostage.”

Dexter let out a long snort and leaned against the table. Erskine threw up his hands. “Fifteen minutes,” he said to the ceiling. “She’s known him for _fifteen minutes_ and she already knows his Achilles’ heel.”

“Whyever would you want to hold my hat hostage?” Skulduggery asked her, ignoring his friends. “Or come with us? As I said, you won’t be alone here.”

“Because—” She hesitated. “Because this is the house where my uncle died, and I just got attacked in it, and I don’t want to be here anymore.”

Skulduggery nodded slowly. “Understandable. We can take you home, then.”

“No.”

“No?”

“What happened to Gordon?”

“I don’t suppose the funeral was hint enough?”

“Something happened to him,” she said, and hated the fact that her voice choked up a bit. She stopped and took a breath to retake control of her voice. “Something happened to him, something that made all of you angry at the funeral, and Fergus angry at you, and now you’re here right when someone tried to break into his house. I want to know why.”

“Would it help if I said I’d come back and tell you once I found out?”

“Wait a minute.” Dexter straightened and held up his hands palms outward. Erskine took a step out of his way. “You’re not _actually_ considering this, are you?”

“She’s holding my hat hostage,” Skulduggery pointed out.

“So we’ll get Ghastly to make you another one.”

“And she’s got a point about having the right to know why.”

“Rover’s going to kill you,” Erskine said with a frown.

“Why?” Stephanie asked.

“Because,” Erskine said without looking away from Skulduggery, “he swore to Fergus a long time ago that he would protect his family and your father’s from getting involved in magic.”

Stephanie’s stomach tightened. “Is that why he was so angry at Rover? Because he thought he had failed?”

None of them answered her. Instead Skulduggery said to his friends, “I’ll take her to Descry.”

They glanced at each other, and for reasons Stephanie didn’t understand, that answer made them relax. Dexter did so with a sigh, and Erskine with a shake of his head, but they did.

Stephanie frowned. “The bee-keeper? Why?”

“Descry,” Skulduggery said, “knows more about anything than anyone in the world.”

“Is that his magic?”

“Something like that. Either way, you won’t get attacked at his house, except by bees, and he will probably know something to satisfy your curiosity. How does that sound?”

Stephanie thought that over for a moment and then nodded, holding out his hat. “Okay. Let’s go.”


	4. The bee-whisperer

Skulduggery Pleasant’s car was a 1954 Bentley R-Type Continental, one of only 208 ever made, a car that housed a six-cylinder 4.5-litre engine and was retrofitted with central locking, climate control, satellite navigation and a host of other modern conveniences. Skulduggery told Stephanie all of this when she asked. She’d have been happy with, “It’s a Bentley.”

Dexter and Erskine decided to stay behind and fix Gordon’s house, though they hadn’t seemed happy about doing it. Their jokes, Stephanie thought, had been forced. Maybe they just didn’t want to stay in the mansion for very long, knowing their friend had died in it. “It is, after all, an antique,” Dexter said. “Like you, Erskine, so at least you’ll know what we shouldn’t do if we want to help it continue to age gracefully.”

“Are you comparing me to a _house_?” Erskine had demanded.

“Of course not. I’m comparing the house to _you_.”

When Skulduggery and Stephanie had left they had still been arguing. Stephanie had walked out quickly and with her head turned away so she couldn’t see the pile of fleshy goo that was all that remained of Maria. They left Gordon’s land via a back road at the rear of the estate to avoid the flooding, a road that Stephanie hadn’t even noticed until they were on it. Skulduggery told her he was a regular visitor here, and knew all the little nooks and crannies. They passed a sign for Haggard and Stephanie thought again about going home, but quickly banished that idea from her head. If she went home now she’d be turning her back on everything she’d just seen. She needed to know more. She needed to _see_ more. As long as it didn’t include men falling to fleshy goo.

“How far is his house?” she asked as they drove on.

“Not all that far. Not as far as the city. The meadow Gordon gave him is on the edge of his land.”

Stephanie did some quick calculations in her head to try and figure that out, but quickly gave up. Gordon’s grounds were huge, and if Mr Hopeless’s grounds were equally as big, that could mean he was anywhere.

“Would he be able to tell us who Maria was?”

“Oh, definitely,” Skulduggery said with a nod. “He’s quite fond of _The Sound of Music_.”

“I mean the man in the house.”

“Did you?”

“Would he?”

“Would he what?”

“Be able to tell us who he was?”

“I doubt it. The man’s dead. Most people don’t come back to life just to answer questions about themselves.”

It was not even remotely what Stephanie meant and she suspected Skulduggery knew that, but since this broached another topic about which she wanted to ask, she didn’t really mind. She asked Skulduggery questions about himself instead, about magic and how he came to be like he was, and how he worked when he had no flesh or muscles or _organs_ , until Skulduggery slowed the car and turned onto a set of ruts in the grass.

Stephanie peered out into the darkness and the trees overhead. “Are you sure we’re going the right way?”

“Hopeless likes a bit of isolation.”

“There’s no road.”

“Of course there is. It just isn’t sealed. Or even gravel.”

The night felt absolutely dead around them. Stephanie had never been this far away from any kind of town at this time of night. She could hear the quiet purr of the engine and occasionally the breeze rustling the trees. The car was almost crawling, its headlights pinpricks in the darkness.

Eventually they rolled around a bend in the lane and a cottage came into a view, a cottage backed up against a copse of trees and with the blue pickup truck sitting under the oak beside it. Its porch-lights were still on, and some of the lights inside, and it was enough for Stephanie to see the shadow of a series of gardens making the front yard, as well as some sort of wire shed not far off. Another, larger outhouse loomed up out of the darkness as they approached. Skulduggery pulled up beside the garden and turned the engine off, and they got out.

Stephanie was hit with utter quiet. She could hear crickets and leaves rustling, and a constant low hum from somewhere past the larger shed, and nothing else. She’d never before thought of silence as a physical thing, until now, and shivered. It was creepy. “Why would anyone want to live all the way out here?”

“Look up,” Skulduggery said, and she could tell from his tone that he was smiling, so she did. And gasped.

Overhead were the stars. Billions of them. The stars were very visible in Haggard, not like Dublin, but here there was a thick streamer of them arcing across the sky, so vivid she felt as if she could touch them.

“They are beautiful, aren’t they.”

Stephanie jumped and turned toward the house. There was a man framed in the doorway, the same redheaded man she had met this morning. With the light behind him he looked like he was wearing a halo.

“Yes,” she said, even though it hadn’t been a question.

He turned in the doorway. “Come in.”

Stephanie followed Skulduggery up the cobblestone path winding between the gardens. She saw vegetables and herbs, and some simple flowers. As they passed the smaller shed she heard a rustle of feathers and the soft cluck of chickens, and when they got closer to the cottage she saw it was made from old stone, the same as Gordon’s house. The sort that looked as if it had stood for centuries. Probably it had, Stephanie thought, remembering what Skulduggery had said about the war.

At the doorstep she looked up at the sky again. It _was_ beautiful. Beautiful and so large, so quiet, it was almost frightening. She ducked her head and followed Skulduggery in through the massive wooden door.

The door opened into a front room that was crowded with bookcases. They were against every wall, except for a good few feet of space around the fireplace where logs sat glowing red. There were a couple of armchairs facing the grate. Stephanie looked around. Every book looked like it was leatherbound. On the desk there was another one, open and with string trailing from its spine, a pot of glue sitting beside it. “You make your own books?”

She’d never heard of anyone who did that except for in movies when they were trying to be authentic.

“I write a lot of journals,” Hopeless said, “and up until about a century ago, the only way I could get enough paper was to make it myself.”

A century ago. Stephanie stopped and looked closely at one of the filled bookcases. The books in it looked much older and more worn than the books in the next one along. She turned to stare at Hopeless. Dexter and Erskine had looked like they were in their thirties, and if they were the same age as Skulduggery then they were _centuries_ old. Hopeless looked like he was about middle-aged. How old did that make him?

“They sell good journals in stores now,” she said, still staring, but Hopeless only smiled and shrugged.

“I find it soothing.”

Stephanie looked around. The room was very rustic, that was for sure. There were little hand-made puppets hanging from the ceiling. She noticed now that the light came from lanterns in the corners of the room. They weren’t electric; when she peered closer at one she saw oil inside. That had to be a fire hazard.

“Would you like something to eat?”

Stephanie opened her mouth to say no, but there was a wonderful smell wafting through the inside door and she realised she was hungry. “Alright.”

“Kitchen’s this way.” Stephanie followed him as he led her to a room on the end. There was another room nearly opposite the living-room, and she peered into it as they passed. She blinked and slowed.

This room could not have been more different—or out of place. It was still made of stone. It had bookshelves and hand-made puppets hanging from the ceiling. But where the living-room was like walking into something from out of the past, this room was very modern. It was the computer, she thought. There was a big desk against the wall and there was a computer on it, one that looked like the best on the market, with two large screens and a printer and a hand-held scanner Stephanie had only thought people like researchers and archaeologists used. There was an open book beside the scanner, with a pair of spectacles on top and a bookmark holding the place.

Skulduggery peered in over her shoulder and spoke to Hopeless, sounding amused. “Are you still working on digitalising those journals?”

“I’m just about done,” Hopeless said, and grinned ruefully. “It’s taken a while.”

“Your computer’s pinging,” Stephanie observed.

“I’m in a couple of chatrooms. It’s okay. I’ll catch up later.”

He had an internet connection? Out here? Where did he get the electricity? He used _oil-lamps_ to light his house. Hopeless turned toward the kitchen, adding, “I have a generator when I need electricity, but it’s small. I tend to only use it for the computer. And there’s a tower not far away, for internet reception.”

Stephanie tore herself away from the computer room. He was, she thought, a strange man. A strange man who still made his own books and used oil-lamps, but had a high-tech computer and frequented chatrooms.

After those two rooms, his kitchen wasn’t much of a surprise. There wasn’t a fridge, or any electrical appliances that Stephanie could see. It was open and made of stone, with broad windows looking out into the night. Stephanie looked at them and then turned away with a shudder, and was glad when Hopeless pulled the curtains across to hide it.

At first she couldn’t see his stove or where the smell was coming from, and then realised that what she had mistaken for a simple stone counter was, in fact, a stove. There was a flat piece of bread lying on it, which she had assumed was simply _there_ , but which was in actual fact baking.

“Erskine wanted me to ask if you’ve entered the twenty-first century, Hopeless,” Skulduggery observed as the redhead went to the stove and pried up the bread with his bare fingers. “But I don’t think I’ll have to.”

“He has a computer,” Stephanie pointed out.

“And I have a truck,” Hopeless said. “I’ve had several trucks. I don’t remember Erskine having even one. I don’t remember Erskine even learning to drive.”

“He can’t drive?”

Hopeless let the bread fall onto a cutting-board and grinned at her as he dusted off his hands, a small grin that showed more in his eyes than on his mouth. “No. He really, really can’t.”

“To be fair,” Skulduggery said, “he did try.”

“Yes, and it cost me two of said trucks.”

“They were old trucks.”

“I notice you didn’t volunteer your old Bentley.”

“Of course not,” Skulduggery said, and sounded offended. “My Bentley is a _lady_. She’s aged magnificently. She needs to be handled with care. Your trucks were just trucks.”

Hopeless laughed, a quiet laugh, as he found a knife and cut the bread into large quarters. As he did so that wonderful bready smell wafted up, the sort of something freshly made and still warm, and sweet.

“What is that?”

“A kind of farl,” Hopeless said, moving one of the pieces to a plate. “I put honey and cinnamon in mine.”

Skulduggery had put his hat on the bench and was moving around the kitchen with the air of a man in a space he was very familiar with, setting the table—only for one place—and opening what Stephanie assumed was a basic cupboard under the sink, which turned out to be some sort of cold-room. She pointed.

“Doesn’t the milk spoil?”

“No, the house is built over an underground spring. Pumping the water up keeps the area cool, and the stone holds the chill even in summer. Put your hand in and see. Choose what you’d like as a topping while you’re at it.”

Stephanie looked into the cold-room. There was jam, and milk, and cream, and some cured meats and cheese. After a moment she found some strawberry jam and took out the cream. Hopeless was right: the inside was amazingly cold, given it was just a stone-built cupboard. She brought the condiments to the table and Skulduggery closed the door behind her.

“Did you make these yourself too?” she asked.

“Why would I do that, when I can just get it from the grocer’s?” Hopeless asked with an absolute straight face as he brought a plate over, and Stephanie looked at him out of the corner of her eye.

“You’re weird,” she said frankly. “At least the skeleton got his car retrofitted.”

“She has a point,” Skulduggery agreed.

“I think I should feel betrayed,” Hopeless said lightly, placing the plate down in front of Stephanie. She hesitated a moment, but since Hopeless had told her to choose her own condiments, she reasoned that she didn’t need to hold back on using them. So she didn’t. In fact, she felt almost ravenous now, and tackled the farl first by smothering it in jam and cream and then with her cutlery.

It was delicious. It was dense inside and slightly chewy. The honey was obvious, but not overbearing, and there was just enough cinnamon to be tantalising. The jam and the cream almost weren’t necessary at all, and before she knew it Stephanie was wolfing the whole lot down.

“Why are you here, Skulduggery?” Hopeless asked, taking a seat and folding his arms on the table. He wasn’t eating, Stephanie realised abruptly, and glanced toward the rest of the farl on the counter. What was he doing baking past midnight if he wasn’t planning on eating any of it?

“Stephanie was attacked this evening,” Skulduggery said, and gave a brief recount of the fight as Stephanie ate, more slowly, and watched Hopeless.

There was something odd about him. It wasn’t like Skulduggery was odd, because Skulduggery was a _skeleton_ and there really wasn’t much that was odder than that. It was something about Hopeless’s expressions, about his mannerisms. What had Gordon said about him? ‘The gentlest man I’ve ever known’?

It was a kind of _peace_. Hopeless looked tired, but not stressed. He had some grey hair, but didn’t seem as if he was worried about getting more. He was quiet and blended into the background, but not as if he was afraid. Just as if that was his place, and he was okay with that. Even now, as Skulduggery spoke, he said nothing and listened, his attention fully on the skeleton. Stephanie got the impression that he did that a lot. Listening. Not the kind of listening where people were just waiting for their chance to talk, but actually sitting and waiting and being patient to hear what people had to say.

There was a counsellor at the school. Stephanie had been sent there twice last year. He was a nice man to meet in the hall, but in the office he kept encouraging Stephanie to talk, and when she did he didn’t accept what she said. He had to analyse it, turn it into something. The second time Stephanie had refused to talk, because it had sounded to her like he just wanted a chance to be smart.

When Skulduggery fell silent and Hopeless said nothing, Stephanie wanted to fill the silence. She denied the urge by eating, but the quiet went on after she’d finished and put her knife and fork down. Skulduggery seemed to be staring into space. Hopeless sat with his chin resting on his hands, and his eyes closed.

Eventually Stephanie couldn’t take it anymore. “Aren’t you going to eat something?”

Hopeless opened his eyes and looked at her, and for a moment he looked distant before he focussed on her. “No, I had a big supper. I’m something of an insomniac, so I like to do a bit of housework for the coming day.”

“Skulduggery said you know more about anything than anyone in the planet.”

“Did he?” Hopeless grinned at him.

“I said no such thing,” Skulduggery said. “That implies you know more than me, and obviously, that’s untrue.”

“Of course it is.”

They lapsed into silence. Stephanie waited impatiently, and then broke. “Do you know who Maria was?”

“She was an Austrian nun with a perchance for singing, as I recall,” Hopeless said. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen that film.”

“The man in the house,” Stephanie said before Skulduggery could answer. She was starting to feel annoyed. The Dead Men were funny, but only to a point, and then they were just evasive. It was frustrating. “The man who attacked me. Who was he?”

Hopeless nodded. “It was probably Vindick Leather.”

“Who,” Skulduggery asked, “is Vindick Leather?”

“He’s an average-range Adept with delusions of grandeur. A petty thug, mostly. But he has a point, you know. You do rely an awful lot on fire.”

“Then it’s a good thing Erskine knows how to use water in the heat of battle, isn’t it?”

“That really depends on whether there’s any point in boiling over.”

“Didn’t we forbid you from making bad puns?”

“You started it.”

“Now I’m ending it. Who is Leather’s master?” Hopeless said nothing, and for a long time sat looking at Skulduggery. Frowning, Stephanie made to speak, but Skulduggery held up a hand and she shut her mouth. “You know something,” he said, “because if you didn’t, you would have told me so by now. So you know who Leather’s master is. You possibly even know what he’s after.”

Nothing. Hopeless didn’t even move. Skulduggery went on. “Stephanie could have been killed tonight.”

Silence.

“Something has happened to Gordon.”

Silence.

“Hopeless, talk to me.”

“Pick something else to talk about.”

“Wait a minute,” Stephanie broke in, and her heart was thundering now, thundering in her chest. She glared at Hopeless. “You know what happened to Gordon.” He shifted his gaze to her but didn’t answer, and she didn’t let him. “You know what happened to Gordon and you’re not even going to lie about it? You’re just going to sit there and refuse to tell us why he’s dead?”

“Yes,” he said simply, and Stephanie wanted to punch him. She’d even risen to do just that when she felt Skulduggery’s hand on her shoulder to stop her.

“You’ve made an oath, haven’t you?” he asked, and Hopeless exhaled, not exactly a sigh, but as if this subject was wearing on him. Skulduggery nodded. “I see. Thank you, Descry.”

“Wait a minute!” Stephanie jerked herself away from Skulduggery’s grip, pointing at the redhead. “He’s not telling us anything just because he made a _promise_? Gordon’s _dead_.”

“Hopeless,” Skulduggery said, “never makes a promise unless he means to keep it. They’re very important to him, and for good reason.”

“Why? Because of his _magic_?” Stephanie’s voice was scathing.

“Yes.” Skulduggery picked up his hat and turned to Hopeless. “Let me know if you can talk about it.”

“I will.”

Angrily Stephanie whirled around to leave, but when she reached the door Skulduggery hadn’t moved and she turned back.

“Is there anyone else who knows what you know?” Hopeless looked silently up at him. Skulduggery nodded. “Is there anyone else who might be able to give me a solid and incontrovertible hint?”

“Gordon,” Hopeless said simply.

“Gordon’s dead, in case you didn’t notice.”

Hopeless smiled. “That never stopped you, dead man.”

“Quite true, that.” Skulduggery put his hat on his head, angling it just so, and finally turned and strode out of the kitchen.


	5. Detective work

Stephanie said nothing until she got into the Bentley, slamming the door behind her and sitting up in the seat. Her heart was throbbing in her head and she could feel that her mouth was a straight line. She didn’t look at Skulduggery as he got in and started the car. He didn’t say anything to her, and right up until they turned off the narrow driveway onto a proper road there was silence in the Bentley.

“Where are we going now?” Stephanie asked stiffly.

“Back to Gordon’s.”

“I’m not going to stay behind.”

“I didn’t think you would. Hopeless said Gordon knew something.”

“Of course he knew something! He was killed for it!”

Stephanie realised what she said just as the words came out, and froze. Gordon had died of natural causes; the doctors had said so. But these were doctors who lived in a world without walking, talking skeletons. Still, why assume he’d been killed?

No, she corrected herself. Not killed— _murdered_. Her attacker, and whoever had sent him, wanted something. They wanted something badly enough to kill her to get it. And if they wanted it that badly, why would they hesitate to kill Gordon to get it too?

She felt cold and hot at once, and knew her face was red. Gordon had been murdered. Someone had killed him and Hopeless knew why, and he didn’t even have the decency to lie about knowing anything.

“He was killed for it,” she said again, and her voice shook.

“What makes you think that?” Skulduggery asked.

She glared at him, and if he hadn’t been driving she might have hit him instead of his awful friend. “Isn’t it _obvious_? They wanted something badly enough to kill to get it!”

“But they don’t know where it is,” Skulduggery pointed out. “If they killed Gordon, they wouldn’t find out.”

Stephanie opened her mouth to answer, faltered, and shut it again. He was right. If Gordon was the only one who knew where it was, then why would they kill him before he could tell them? And he hadn’t. Otherwise they wouldn’t have had to threaten her over it. “Because … because … because of magic?”

“Precisely.”

Stephanie frowned. “What?”

“You brought up a very good point,” he said. “If they want something badly enough to kill, why did they kill the man who could tell them where it was? The question is not ‘What did Gordon have that someone might want to steal?’ but rather ‘What did Gordon have that someone had to wait until he was dead to steal it?’”

“There’s a difference?”

“A big one. It’s a matter of magic, as you said. Some items can’t be taken from the person who owns them, and used, unless that person is dead.”

“So then Gordon owned something,” Stephanie said slowly, “which someone else wants, and they couldn’t use it until no one owned it anymore?”

“Essentially.”

A chill ran down her spine, trickled into her stomach, and left her body feeling like ice. “Skulduggery, Gordon left me all his money and all his things. Does that mean that I own it now?”

“To be inherited when you turn eighteen,” Skulduggery corrected. “Until then your parents hold the trust.”

The chill got worse, seeping through her until she shuddered. “Then my _parents_ own it?”

“I doubt it. Gordon seems to have struck upon a rather interesting loophole. Technically speaking, you don’t own anything until you turn eighteen, and until that day, no one else does either. On one hand, it does mean that they don’t _have_ to kill you to get it. On the other, that doesn’t mean they won’t, and there’s nothing stopping them from simply taking it if they find where it is.”

“Oh.” Stephanie thought that over, pretending that her knees didn’t feel weak and she wasn’t glad she was sitting down. The relief had been so strong it almost made her feel sick. Her parents were safe. “So then the key is something no one else can own unless the person who owned it first is dead?”

“Or,” Skulduggery said, “whatever it is the key opens.”

He fell silent then, staring ahead in a way that was very unnerving. Stephanie might have thought he’d forgotten he was driving, except that every now and then he made tiny motions to keep the car on track. She looked at him and waited.

They were getting close to Gordon’s house when he suddenly spoke again as if there hadn’t been a lull in conversation at all. “The thing is,” he said slowly, “the thing is that if the key _can’t_ be used unless the person who owned it prior is dead, then the very safest thing for Gordon to do after death would be to give it to someone who can own it right away, someone Leather’s master doesn’t know about.”

“What if it’s not?”

“Then the safest thing for Gordon to do would still be to give it to someone who can own it right away.”

“What are you thinking?”

“I’m not sure. It’s there, but it’s not coming. I’ll chase after it later. We’re here.”

They pulled up outside Gordon’s house and Stephanie turned to look at it. She was startled to find that the door was back on its hinges, swinging easily as if it had never been broken. When they got out of the car and went inside, the floor was cleaned, the furniture put right. That wasn’t extraordinary. Maybe Erskine and Dexter were good at carpentry or cleaning.

But when she looked at the window, there it was, unbroken and polished as if it had never been shattered.

“Ah, I see Dexter’s been showing off,” Skulduggery said, unwinding his scarf and taking off his hat as he moved toward the stairs. Stephanie followed, still staring at the unbroken window and then around at the cleaned room. If it wasn’t for the skeleton striding ahead of her, she might have thought she imagined the whole thing.

“What can he do? Repair things?”

“No, he’s an energy-thrower. They’re actually fairly common as far as offensive magic-users go; it’s fast and easy to shoot a beam of energy at someone, and quite effective too. What makes Dexter unique is how much control he has over the energy.”

Stephanie frowned. “What does that have to do with the window?”

Skulduggery looked at her. “Dexter can turn his energy into things,” he said, “like conjuration. It’s supposed to be a completely different discipline, but nobody’s ever managed to conjure anything that lasts without significant drawbacks—no one except Dexter. I’ve seen him conjure everything from whole outfits to a small bridge, though that one wore him out pretty much completely. A pane of glass isn’t all that difficult. ”

Until then it hadn’t occurred to Stephanie that there might be types of magic which weren’t harmful at all. The fire Skulduggery had conjured had been cool, and Erskine’s water trick had been handy but creepy. Skulduggery said Dexter’s magic was _supposed_ to be for fighting, but conjuring things wasn’t at all. And conjurations wouldn’t be much good against someone like Leather, would they? “Is that why he stayed out of the fight? Can he not shoot beams of energy from his hands anymore?”

“He can,” Skulduggery said. “But Dexter’s conjurations are magical, no matter how ordinary they look. That means they affect magic too. His specialty is conjuring shields—giant shields which can stand up to massive magical attacks. Most sorcerers tend to only use magic offensively in battle, especially energy-throwers. Dexter’s one of the few who uses both, and the only one I know who was able to develop an offensive magic into a defensive one. It’s very difficult, of course. The degree of control and stability it takes is beyond most people.”

“So he likes being defensive as well as offensive?” Something clicked in Stephanie’s head. “Is the energy-throwing thing why he almost never points his hands at anything?”

“Oh, you noticed that, did you?” Skulduggery sounded impressed as they came to the landing and approached the stairs up to Gordon’s office. “Yes, that’s right. You see, Dexter can’t just throw energy—he can control how powerful the beam actually is. Most energy-throwers can’t even do that. So people started taking some gestures which you or I might use without any trouble as a threat coming from Dexter.”

“Not that we can blame them,” Erskine said, appearing in the doorway with his sleeves rolled up and a sheaf of papers clutched in his hand, “after having seen him fizzle an entire farmhouse out of existence.”

“The people in it were going to ambush us,” Dexter grumbled, unseen, from somewhere inside the room. “I just thought I’d save us the trouble of having to flush them out.”

“Yes, well, you vaporised them too, so you got all the fun and we got none. What’s fair about that? Hello again, Stephanie. What did Descry have to say?”

Just like that, Stephanie’s mood plummeted. She scowled and pushed past him into the office. Dexter was sprawled in a chair, feet up on the desk and a sheaf of paper in his hands. Some of the books had been cleared off the shelves; Stephanie recognised all of the autographed first-edition books Gordon had left to Mr Shudder, but there were some others on the desk as well. She went to the bookcase and pretended to be browsing.

“That’s an awfully black look for such a pretty young lady,” Erskine observed. “Skulduggery, I thought you knew more about satisfying women than that.”

“Hopeless knows who killed Gordon,” Skulduggery said.

“Oh, good,” Dexter said.

“But he’s oath-bound.”

“Oh, bad.”

“Quite. What are you two up to?”

“We were going through the personal effects Gordon left to us,” Erskine said, taking some paper from his pocket and waving it. Stephanie caught a glimpse of Fedgewick’s hallmark at the top.

“Is that why you’re each holding a chapter of his last book?”

“Did you know he left a stipulation in his will that Anton gets a first-edition copy of his last book, whatever it was, if it gets published posthumously?” Dexter demanded, peering over his page at the skeleton.

“So you’re reading it before Anton can?”

“Exactly. Otherwise he’ll lock them up behind the desk and we’ll have to gaze longingly through the glass for the rest of our lives.”

“Or you could just break the glass.”

“And have him make us pay it off with hard labour? Skulduggery, I thought you were a _smart_ man.”

Stephanie scowled. None of them seemed to care that their friend was withholding vital information. It annoyed her that they were even back at Gordon’s because Hopeless said so. What kind of name was ‘Hopeless’, anyway?

“Why are we here?’ she asked impatiently. “What are we looking for?”

“Clues,” Skulduggery said, and looked at Erskine. “That was all Hopeless could do: point us toward Gordon.”

“But it’s obvious Gordon knew something!” Stephanie protested. “How does that help us?”

Dexter sat up, his feet sliding off the desk onto the floor with a thud, and Erskine was nodded. “It helps,” he said, “because now we know that Gordon _left_ us clues. We just need to figure out what they are.”

“They were probably in the will,” Dexter offered. “What did you say the man was after, Stephanie? A key?”

“So either the key was given away or something pointing toward the key was given away,” Erskine said. “Or something pointing toward whatever the key unlocks. Or—”

“Ghasty’s bequest,” Skulduggery said, and now he was at the bookcase beside Stephanie, gloved fingers running across the books. “He gave Ghastly some magical history books, so they’d be safe. There’s something in the books which is important. All we need to do is a little bit of detective-work.”

Dexter and Erskine looked at each other and then made for other bookcases, Erskine to one that already had holes in it and Dexter to a full one. “Here.” Erskine thrust the letter at Stephanie as he passed. “We know what we’re looking for.”

Heart suddenly pounding, Stephanie took the page and looked down at it. Some of the titles on the list were utterly ordinary, but others made her grin because they sounded so mystical and exciting. She turned toward the bookcase and got to work.

There were a lot of books, and most of them were very heavy—so heavy that Stephanie needed both arms just to carry them. They put them in piles on the desk and bureaus, and eventually, instead of putting them on the floor, simply pulled them halfway out of the shelves so they could be easily seen. Stephanie was peering down at the letter and just about to pull out a book without a name on the spine when Dexter’s voice sounded.

“Hold up a minute.” Stephanie abandoned the book and turned. Dexter stood by the desk, tilting his head to read the spines and holding out his hands as if measuring. “Is it just me, or is there a theme developing?”

Stephanie looked at the books, but she couldn’t tell if there was one or not. They all looked like books on magic to her. Skulduggery was nodding, though, and after a moment Erskine picked up a book and looked closer, shaking his head in something like disbelief. “No. Really?”

“They’re all about the Ancients,” Dexter said. “And a good chunk of _those_ are about the Sceptre.”

“Maybe it’s research,” Erskine said unconvincingly. “The Sceptre’s the only thing he hasn’t written about.”

“Then why would he give _these_ books to Ghastly and leave behind ones like that?” Dexter pointed to a book, still on the shelf, titled _A history of the faeries of Ireland_.

“Faeries?” Stephanie asked. “Are they real?”

“No,” Erskine said. “That’s the point. All the books he’s given Ghastly read like histories, but they’re about mythological beings and items.”

“Which means Dexter also has a point.” Skulduggery was still, staring at the books. Stephanie couldn’t tell what he was thinking. “If Gordon is giving Ghastly magical myths, why is he giving out some and not others, unless there’s something in _these_ myths which is important?”

“But the Sceptre is a fairy-tale!” Erskine objected.

“Of course it is,” Skulduggery agreed, “but that doesn’t mean that Leather’s master can’t believe it isn’t.”

Erskine frowned. Stephanie frowned too. “I thought we didn’t know who Leather’s master is?”

Skulduggery’s head shifted minutely toward her. “We don’t have _proof_ of who he is, but as Erskine said before, there’s really only one likely candidate. The problem is that anyone except one of us will simply assume that we’re biased. They’d be right, but that doesn’t mean we’re wrong.”

“Why? Who is he?”

“His name is Nefarian Serpine.” Skulduggery showed no particular reaction to the name, but Dexter’s face tightened and Erskine curled his lip. “He’s one of the bad guys. I suppose, now that Mevolent is gone, he’d be considered _the_ bad guy.”

“What’s so bad about him?”

For a moment none of them answered. “Serpine is an Adept,” Skulduggery said at last. “He was Mevolent’s most trusted lieutenant. If Gordon was a collector of books and objects, then Serpine is a collector of magic. He has tortured, maimed and killed in order to learn other people’s secrets. He has committed untold atrocities in order to uncover obscure rituals, searching for the one ritual that he, and religious fanatics like him, have been seeking for generations. Back when the war broke out, he had this … weapon. These days he’s full of surprises, but he still uses it because, quite frankly, there is no defence against it.”

“Almost,” Dexter muttered.

“What’s the weapon?” Stephanie asked, glancing at him curiously.

“To put it simply, agonising death,” Skulduggery answered.

“Agonising death … on its own? Not, like, fired from a gun or anything?”

“He just points his Red Hand at you and … well, like I said, agonising death. It’s a necromancy technique.”

“Necromancy?”

“Death magic, an especially dangerous Adept discipline. I don’t know how he learned it, but learn it he did.”

Stephanie looked at Dexter. “But there _is_ a defence against it?”

Dexter laughed, but unlike all his laughs from before, this one sounded bitter. “If you want to call it a _defence_.” He held out his hands and Stephanie automatically took a step back. He shook his head. “Look.”

Stephanie looked. Dexter was well dressed, and his hands were the hands of a man who kept very good care of them, his fingernails clean and straight. But there was something odd about his palms. Stephanie had seen workmen’s palms before; they were rough and callused. Dexter’s were scarred.

“There’s only two things we’ve found which can stop the Red Hand,” Erskine said. “One of them is Dexter’s shields, and it’s not exactly a perfect defence. He’s only had to block Serpine once, and he almost lost both his hands. It took him weeks to recover.”

Stephanie’s stomach turned over. “What’s the other one?”

“The Elemental magic of earth,” Dexter said, dropping his hands.

“Wait a minute.” Stephanie looked at Skulduggery. “I remember you telling me about this one in the car. It’s purely defensive and purely as a last resort, right?”

“That’s right,” Skulduggery said.

“What does it do?”

“It turns the user to stone,” Skulduggery said simply. “There’s no telling how long they’ll stay like that. It could be a day, a week, or a hundred years. There’s no way of knowing.”

“Rover was stuck for nearly a decade,” Erskine said quietly, and Stephanie’s head snapped around, her stomach turning over again.

“Rover?”

Dexter turned toward the window, crossing his arms. Erskine nodded, glancing at him. “It was near the end of the war. After Serpine discovered Dexter could defend even against his Red Hand, he decided he had to get rid of the threat. He set us a trap. There’s only so many shields Dex can make before he’s overstretched. Serpine made sure he was too focussed on trying to stay alive, and trying to keep the people we were protecting alive, and took him by surprise. Rover was the only one close enough to do anything about it.”

“He got in the way,” Dexter said, staring through the glass into the night. “Saved my life.”

“The Red Hand doesn’t kill right away,” Erskine said, “but I didn’t even know it was possible to think through that. Rover managed it. He turned himself to stone, and stopped the Red Hand from affecting him. We weren’t sure if he’d still be alive when it wore off, but he was. It was a near thing, but he was.”

Stephanie stared at them all, and chills were running up and down her spine, settling in the pit of her stomach. She could understand why people said they were biased. Even they said they were biased, and for good reason. Serpine had tried to kill Dexter. He had made Rover need to be turned to stone.

“Then what does this Sceptre thing have to do with all this?” she asked, suddenly desperate for a subject that didn’t make these witty men look so serious.

“Nothing. It has nothing to do with anything.”

“Well, what is it?”

Erskine laughed, and although it sounded slightly forced, it was better than nothing. “Another unstoppable weapon. You’d think Serpine has enough of them by now. Do you think he’s overcompensating, Dex?”

“Definitely,” Dex answered, forcing a grin at his friend. “You know what they say about big staves.”

“Technically, it’s only about the length of Stephanie’s thighbone,” Skulduggery corrected.

“It’s the principle of its magic, not its physical size,” Erskine said dismissively, waving a hand.

“So what _is_ it?” Stephanie asked again, but relieved they were back to joking.

“We’d tell you the story and make a night of it, with popcorn and Cola, except that it’s way past your bed-time. Almost dawn, in fact.” Dexter pointed out the window, and when Stephanie looked she saw the outside was, indeed, getting lighter. “Don’t you have someone coming to pick you up?”

Stephanie dug her mobile phone out of her pocket and groaned as she saw the time. “Yes. Mum will be coming soon. But I wanted to hear about the Sceptre!”

“There’s always tomorrow,” Dexter offered, then corrected, “well, today, really.” Stephanie looked at him.

“Promise? I don’t want to go back to that world—a boring old town with nosy neighbours and nasty aunts.”

“You’d rather stay in a world where you get attacked and your uncle is murdered?” Skulduggery asked.

Stephanie hesitated and then looked at Dexter, and then Erskine. She thought of the grinning man in the Beatles T-shirt who had spent ten years as a statue, and Gordon, writing about all the magic no one else believed in. “I know it sounds crazy,” she said, “but yes. Things _happen_ here.”

“She can’t exactly step out of it yet anyway,” Erskine pointed out. “Serpine—assuming it is Serpine—thinks she has the key. She’s in danger until this is all over.”

“Agreed,” Skulduggery said, and looked at her. “Therefore, you should go home, get a good morning’s sleep, and we’ll contact you later today.”

“How?”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” Skulduggery said, “but there’s something people invented a decade ago called phones. Useful things, they are. You can contact someone with them almost anywhere in the world.”

Stephanie laughed. “You’re weird. I’m going downstairs now.”

“Don’t fall,” Erskine told her.

“But if you do, have a nice trip,” Dexter added, and Stephanie was smiling as she turned and left the office.

Her mother’s car was splashing up through the huge puddles by the time she reaching the door, if only because she had to stop on the landing and take some deep breaths until the shivers stopped. It wasn’t that she was scared, exactly. It was just that magic was a lot more tragic than she imagined it might be. She went outside to meet her mother and got in the car.

“Good morning,” her mother said as she did. “Everything okay?”

Stephanie nodded, hoping she wasn’t as pale as she felt. “Yeah, everything’s fine.”

“You’re looking a little dusty.”

“I was sorting through some of Gordon’s books,” she said truthfully.

Her mother laughed as they drove back to the gate. “You’re as bad as he is. Find anything interesting?”

Stephanie hesitated, and then shrugged. “Not really.”


	6. The family curse

Stephanie went to bed as soon as she got home and woke at a few minutes past two in the afternoon. She padded to the bathroom and showered, her body aching as she stood under the spray. She wasn’t badly hurt, but her neck was stiff and bruised from where Leather had gripped her. She turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, dried herself off and pulled on fresh jeans and a T-shirt.

Barefoot, she went downstairs to get something to eat, and only after she had done so did she allow herself to think about the previous night.

 _Well,_ she said to herself, _so that happened._

She pulled on her shoes and went out, the sunshine warm on her face. At the end of her road she passed the old pier and started towards Main Street. Normality. Kids playing football, riding bikes and laughing, dogs running about, tails wagging, neighbours talking to neighbours and the world being as she’d always thought it was. No living skeletons. No magic. No men trying to kill her.

A crazed laugh escaped her lips when she reflected on how much her life had changed in the space of a day. She had gone from being a perfectly ordinary girl in a perfectly ordinary world to becoming a target for water-soluble weirdoes and working with detectives called the Dead Men to solve her uncle’s murder.

“Stephanie!” A shout made her turn, not because it was loud but because of who had shouted. Fergus hurried down the street toward her, a briefcase clutched in his hands and a scowl on his face. Two days ago Stephanie would’ve assumed that was all it was. Now she looked closer, and she was startled to see worry.

He took her elbow, a little roughly, and turned her toward his house. “You shouldn’t be out here,” he said.

“I’m just walking,” she pointed out with a frown, almost yanking her arm away but then thinking better of it. She was too busy watching Fergus’s face and the way his eyes were darting everywhere. “You know about last night,” she blurted without meaning to.

His head jerked, but he didn’t look at her as he snapped, “Of course I know. Rover came to see me yesterday, and his friends rang him with news.”

“It happened after midnight.”

“He took the guest room.”

Stephanie thought of Rover’s jokes, and of Beryl’s indignation, and grinned. “How did Beryl take that?”

Fergus’s eyes flickered. “She didn’t know.”

“Are you _sure_ you’re not having an illicit affair?”

He shot her a look torn between actual anger and the kind of exasperation she’d seen him throw at Rover during the whole of the reading of the will. “You’ve already been around him for too long.”

Stephanie shrugged modestly as best as she could when he was still holding her arm. “He’s catching.”

“Like a virus,” Fergus muttered as they came to his door and he finally let go of Stephanie to dig in his pocket for his keys. He unlocked it and pushed it open, stepping inside. “Come in.”

Never, in her entire life, had Stephanie been invited into Fergus’s house like this, let alone by Fergus. This almost felt more surreal than Leather trying to kill her last night. She hesitated on the doorstep.

“Won’t Beryl and the twins find it weird?”

“The twins are at a friend’s,” he said, “and Beryl’s looking into car salesmen. They won’t be back for hours.”

Stephanie’s stomach flip-flopped. “You’re selling Gordon’s car?”

He looked at her suspiciously and then looked away again, leading the way into the house. “I don’t know. Carol and Crystal will be learning to drive soon, but Beryl says it’s too flashy.”

“Beryl says a lot of things.” Stephanie wanted to ask why Fergus had even married someone like her, but she did sometimes know when to shut up, and managed to keep the question inside. She did not expect Fergus to answer, especially with such a tone of resignation.

“She wasn’t always like that.”

For a moment Stephanie just stared, following after him as he set down his briefcase and keys, and unknotted his tie, and moved into the kitchen. Unlike Gordon, who had been famous, or her father, who owned a whole company, Fergus was just in a small white-collar office job.

“What do you mean?” she asked at last, standing by the table. “What did she used to be like?”

“She’s always liked money,” Fergus said, putting his jacket over the back of a chair and moving around the kitchen to make some tea, like he was searching for an excuse not to look at her. “And she always liked shiny things. But she didn’t used to think she was owed it. She just liked it.”

Stephanie blinked and frowned. If she thought it over she could see it. Maybe. “So what happened?”

“I spoiled her,” Fergus said, and there was an odd wistful tone in his voice as he picked up cups, set the kettle to boiling, found a very familiar-looking honeypot. Stephanie scowled at it, and asked a question just to keep from getting angry all over again.

“Why?”

“Because I was afraid she’d find out I was a freak and leave me, I suppose.” His tone was resigned, and Stephanie stared as he turned to grip the back of the chair, staring through the window and into space.

“You’re not a freak,” she said finally. “There’s lots of people who know about magic.” Personally she wasn’t sure why he’d care so much about _Beryl_ leaving him, but there was something in the way he spoke about how things used to be that kept her mouth shut. Even so, Fergus’s gaze snapped to her.

“I never wanted to be one of them,” he said flatly. “You were almost _killed_ last night. Magic’s a dangerous thing. I never wanted to be part of it. I never wanted to know about it. But Gordon …” He made a sound, part an incredulous laugh and part a disdainful snort. “He couldn’t stay out of it.”

Stephanie’s heart pounded in her chest. “Gordon was a sorcerer?”

Fergus paused and looked away. “No,” he admitted. “No, he didn’t go that far. But there was a while where we hardly spoke at all, because he wouldn’t stop associating with people who are. Worse, he was trying to drag Desmond into it all.”

“Dad knew about it?”

“When we were children,” Fergus said, “our grandfather used to tell us stories about magic. We believed them.” He saw the look on her face and laughed, a rusty, quiet, bitter laugh. “Yes, even me. But Pops—I don’t know if he really didn’t believe, or if he just didn’t want to. After Mother died he kept trying to keep us from talking to Grandfather at all. Gordon brushed him off, but I listened. Pops was terrified we’d get into something we wouldn’t be able to get out of. So I helped him convince Desmond it was all just a fairy-tale, that Grandfather was delusional, that insanity was the family’s curse. Even though I knew better.”

“You _lied_ to him?” Stephanie demanded, suddenly feeling angry, but Fergus shot her a look.

“When were _you_ planning to tell your parents about what happened last night?”

Stephanie opened her mouth and then closed it, her cheeks pink. Because he was right. She hadn’t intended to say anything at all. She didn’t want them to worry about her.

Fergus laughed again, that rusty laugh not just like he hadn’t used it in years, but as if it was too bitter to be smooth. “That’s what I thought.”

“What happened then?” she asked, staunchly ignoring the heat in her face.

Fergus smiled a strange smile. Tense, exasperated, but affectionate too. “Rover happened,” he said. The kettle whistled, so he paused to go and pour the tea and then bring it back, putting out the milk. “Gordon and I hadn’t spoken in over a year,” he went on, “when one day Rover appeared at my doorstep. He never hid that he was a sorcerer, and no matter what I did he didn’t leave me alone. He’d turn up at the house. Tell me what Gordon had been doing. Want to take me out places. Act like he was my friend.”

He didn’t sit down. He just gripped the back of the chair again, shaking his head. “He never used magic to show off. Eventually there were times that I’d forget he could even use it, and they became more and more frequent.” Stephanie slowly stirred her tea, most of her attention on her uncle, but he was staring out the window again. “The first time I ever saw him use magic he saved our lives in a car-crash. That was when I realised that I didn’t care as much as Pops thought I should have. And after that, Rover managed to get me talking to Gordon again.”

“What about Dad?”

Fergus shook his head. “We both agreed to keep Des out of it. Des was … he was worse than Gordon. Gordon was an observer. He just liked writing about things, experiencing them from a distance. But Desmond was interested in the excitement, in the glamour. When we were children he was always the one playing the eccentric hero. There’s no telling how far he would have gone, if he’d known the truth.”

For a long moment Stephanie said nothing. Then she asked, “Why are you telling me this?”

Fergus looked her in the eye. “Because I’m hoping it’ll convince you not to be a fool by getting into danger.”

Stephanie thought about Gordon. About Dexter’s witty concern, Erskine’s grim teasing, Skulduggery’s dry arrogance. She thought of the way it made her felt when she was helping them with the research, and how they treated her while she did. As if she wasn’t just a child, but an equal. Someone who could do things with their life. Someone with a _purpose_.

“I don’t think it’s going to work,” she said finally, looking at him back. Fergus ran a hand through his hair.

“Damn it, Stephanie, it’s _dangerous_. You’re twelve years old. There’s no reason for you to be throwing yourself at the mercy of people who could kill you at their whim!”

“There isn’t ‘no reason’,” Stephanie said, and to her surprise she didn’t feel angry. He was _worried_. All this time she’d thought he was awful and boring, and he was really worried. Really worried in a … boring way, but still. She just looked at him steadily. “There’s finding out who killed Gordon.”

He paled. “They told you about that?”

Stephanie frowned. “I worked it out myself.”

“Then let them work out the rest! It’s their job, Stephanie, there’s no need to be involved more!”

“But I want to.”

“You’re twelve,” Fergus said again. “Twelve-year-olds never know what they want.”

“Some do. Some twelve-year-olds become kings. We read about them in class.”

“That’s different.”

“How?” Stephanie asked, and then added impulsively, “Didn’t kids always start this kind of thing early, back then? You know, when Rover and the others were born? Training and things?”

“It’s not ‘back then’ anymore,” said Fergus shortly. “It’s _now_ , and you have school, and what about your parents? Are you going to lie to them every day until they don’t know who you are or what you’re doing?”

A chill ran down Stephanie’s spine. “That isn’t going to happen.”

“Isn’t it?” Fergus asked quietly. “Gordon and I weren’t talking for nearly _four years_. And he was only halfway in. If you go all the way, how long before you have to choose which life you have to give up?”

“It won’t happen,” Stephanie said again, this time with an edge of desperation. “I won’t let it.”

“ _I_ won’t let it,” Fergus corrected, and Stephanie stared.

“What does that mean?” Her stomach coiled until it made her feel sick. “You’re going to tell my parents?”

Fergus hesitated and then looked away. “Not yet. Not after all this time. But I will if I have to. If it’ll help keep my _family_ safe. That’s you, Stephanie.”

He said it with a sidelong look and a wry smile that was weirdly nice on his face, and Stephanie saw clearly that he and Gordon were brothers, so much so that she smiled back without thinking. It was very odd, having a Moment with the uncle Stephanie had never thought much of. Odd, but kind of nice, even though Stephanie felt like she should be angry. He’d been trying to tell her what to do. She really hated that.

But she only hated it when she wasn’t given a good reason. She still thought Fergus was being way overprotective, like adults were, and she hated the feeling of being protected. Except after last night she could kind of understand why he felt that way too. Especially after everything he’d just said.

The doorbell rang. Stephanie looked down at her tea and Fergus jerked back to glance into the hallway. “I’ll be right back,” he said gruffly, and went to answer the door. Stephanie picked up her tea, sipping at it, and strained her ears. It paid off when she heard Skulduggery speak.

“Ah. Fergus. Hello.”

“Mr Pleasant.” Fergus’s voice was a little cold, but polite. “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Stephanie. Dexter said you accosted her off the street.”

“I got her out of _sight_. She’s in the kitchen.”

Stephanie got to her feet as Skulduggery entered, wearing his disguise. “Dexter was watching?” she asked.

“Of course. You’re a target. I’m going to go and see Ghastly, and find out what he has to say about—” He glanced toward Fergus, who turned to pick up Stephanie’s cup and take it to the sink, pointedly ignoring them. “—certain matters. Would you like to come along?”

“Really?” Stephanie asked eagerly, and then stopped and glanced at Fergus. His face was stony as he washed out her empty cup, but there was a resigned set to his shoulders. A resigned and determined one, and she knew in that instant from the look on his face that he would do what he said. He would tell her parents what she was up to. And the worst thing was that the Dead Men didn’t seem to hide anything from each other, which meant that Rover would know anything she did and probably tell him, no matter how hard she tried to keep it a secret.

“As long as nothing too bad might happen,” she added, and Skulduggery tilted his head at her.

“Oh?”

She shrugged as casually as possible. “I wouldn’t want my parents to worry about random bruises.” Fergus shot her a look like he knew what she was thinking, but since he didn’t have any proof he couldn’t exactly accuse her of anything. “Uncle Fergus, can you let my parents know I’ve just gone for a walk with a friend?”

He looked hard at her. “This time.”

“Thanks.” She meant it to be upbeat, jaunty like Rover, but it came out a little softer instead, and she turned toward the door before anyone could notice. Without looking back she left the house and climbed into the Bentley, sitting smartly by the curb. She didn’t say anything as Skulduggery got in the car, turned it on and pulled out from the road.

Then she said, “Are the others going to be there?”

“Why don’t you ask and find out?” Skulduggery said as he pulled up down the street without turning off the engine, and Dexter slid into the Bentley.

“Afternoon, all,” he said, buckling himself in and then leaning forward to tug Stephanie’s hair lightly. “ _You_ slept like a log. I could tell by the way my throwing things at your window didn’t wake you up.”

Stephanie made a mental note to check the glass for chips or cracks. “Were you there all morning?”

“Who, me? Of course not. I needed my beauty sleep, didn’t I? Ravel can afford to lose some of his. Not that he stopped whining about it, of course.”

“He _is_ really good-looking,” Stephanie agreed, straight-faced. “You can use all the help you can get.”

“A hit!” Dexter clutched at his heart. “How do ladies always know right where to jab a man?”

“Be fair, Dexter,” Skulduggery said. “Where you’re concerned, it’s not that hard to figure it out.”

“Another hit, from the lady skeleton in blue.”

“But he’s a man,” Stephanie pointed out, and Dexter grinned.

“Ask him where a good number of his ribs came from.”

“I was hoping you’d forgotten that,” Skulduggery grumbled. “You haven’t mentioned it in nearly a decade.”

“If you’re going to blow yourself up and borrow female rib-bones to replace the ones you lost, you have to expect to never avoid being teased for it.”

“You got blown up?” Stephanie asked, and Skulduggery’s shoulders rose and fell in a modest shrug.

“It was a rather explosive arrest.”

“What happened?”

“He was a very bad man who objected to being arrested,” Skulduggery said.

“So you tried to blow him up? Did he get away?”

“Of course not. A little thing like being blown up isn’t going to get in the way of my doing my job.”

Stephanie grinned and turned around in her seat. “Were you there?”

“Oh, definitely,” Dexter said with a nod. “Of course, I was outside being smart, and safe, and disarming booby-traps so we could get out with a struggling arrestee without being blown up.”

“That worked out well.”

“It did. The exit was clear of things that might blow us up, until the whole place exploded and fell inward.”

“It collapsed? How did you get out?”

Dexter’s grin broadened. “My secret.”

“He sat there and waited for someone to dig him out,” Skulduggery said.

“That’s better than sitting there and waiting for someone to dig you out while in three different pieces.”

“And I still managed to arrest and cuff the Baron, ready for collection, didn’t I?”

“Yes, because you have overcompensation issues.”

Stephanie was grinning. So what if this life was dangerous? If these were the kind of people she got to meet, that was exciting enough just on its own.

In no time at all, they had arrived. Skulduggery parked and they all got out, and Stephanie looked around. The neighbourhood was dirty and rundown, and people hurried by with only slight glances at the gleaming Bentley. A little old lady shuffled past, nodding to Skulduggery as she went.

“Is this one of those secret communities you were telling me about?” Stephanie asked.

“Indeed it is. We keep the streets as uninviting as possible so no casual passer-by will stop.”

“Sad, isn’t it?” Dexter said, looking around and shaking his head. “You’d think that after all this time we’d have discovered a balance between looking good _and_ secrecy.”

His words reminded Stephanie of something, and she asked, “What _does_ Ghastly look like? He can’t be a skeleton too. He’s not thin enough.”

Skulduggery and Dexter exchanged looks. At least, Stephanie thought they did. Dexter looked at Skulduggery and Skulduggery tilted his head back, at least.

“Ghastly is, well …” Dexter struggled for words and then finally said, “He’s ugly.”

Stephanie blinked. “That’s it? He’s ugly?”

“Not just unattractive,” Skulduggery corrected. “Not merely unappealing, but really, honestly, ugly. His mother was jinxed when she was pregnant with him and now his face is ridged with scars. They tried everything to fix it—spells, potions, charms, glamours, various and sundry creams, but nothing worked.”

“It’s a bit of a shock seeing him for the first time,” Dexter said, and then proudly brushed down the front of his suit, “but he’s an amazing tailor. Even Gordon only bought suits from Ghastly.”

“He said he was the finest tailor in the world,” Stephanie remembered.

“And so he is,” Skulduggery said as he led her to a little shop perched on the corner. Stephanie looked around for a sign.

“This is it?”

“Bespoke Tailor’s, yes.”

“But there’s no sign. There aren’t any clothes in the window. How would anyone know it’s even open?”

“Ghastly doesn’t need to advertise. He has a very specific clientele, and he can’t really afford to let ordinary people wander in when he’s measuring out a new suit for an eight-armed octopus-man.”

“Are you serious? There’s an eight-armed octopus-man?”

“There’s a whole colony of octopus people,” Skulduggery said as they approached the door. Stephanie was alerted by Dexter’s snort.

“You’re having me on, aren’t you?”

Skulduggery looked over his shoulder. “Look at what you’ve done, Dexter. You ruined my punchline.”

Dexter held up his hands in his supplicating gesture, but he was still laughing as they moved through the unlocked door. Stephanie was surprised at how clean and bright and ordinary-looking it was. She didn’t know what she was expecting—mannequins that came alive and tried to eat you, perhaps. There was a nice smell in here too. Comforting.

Ghastly Bespoke walked out from the backroom and when he saw them he smiled and then frowned almost at the same time. He was broad-shouldered and his scars covered his whole head.

“Ghastly, my friend,” Dexter said, stepping forward to clap a hand around his shoulders. “Erskine here yet?”

“He’s dead out on the couch,” Ghastly said. “Good afternoon, Skul.”

“Afternoon. You remember Stephanie?” Skulduggery turned and saw the way she was staring, and shrugged. “Don’t mind her,” he said. “She stares. That’s what she does when she meets new people. Even though you’re not new, precisely, so I’m not sure why she’s staring.”

“I _am_ quite used to it,” Ghastly said. “Do you want to shake hands, Stephanie, or start off with something easy, like waving?”

Stephanie blushed and she stuck out her hand. His hand was normal, no scars, but tough and strong.

“Do you have a name?” he asked.

“A name?”

He peered at her and then up at Skulduggery. “Why is she here, Skul?” Stephanie frowned. She didn’t much like being talked over, either. But the next moment Ghastly shook his head. “Wait, not yet. Let’s go into the other room. Judging by the way Erskine fell on the couch, I’m guessing there’s been some trouble.”

“Some,” answered Skulduggery.

“Like Skulduggery’s missing _some_ weight,” Dexter added.

“Go on.” Ghastly shooed them off. “Let me lock up and get some notes from Stephanie, and we can talk.”

“Some notes?” Stephanie asked Dexter as they wandered into the back of the shop. Material and fabrics of all types and textures were arranged very neatly in massive shelves that lined the walls. There was a single workplace in the centre of the room and another doorway leading further back.

“Like colours,” Dexter said. “He’s probably going to make you some clothes. One look’s all he needs for measurements, but it’s not much fun to dress in something you don’t like, right?”

They passed through into a small living-room, and moments later Ghastly joined them. Erskine was sprawled on the narrow sofa, his feet over the arm and face in a cushion, and one arm reaching to the floor. He wasn’t snoring, but there was very faint music playing—something classical, Stephanie thought. There was only one armchair opposite that, but when they entered Dexter cracked his fingers.

“Not enough seats? This looks like a job for— _me_.”

“Are you going to show off?” Stephanie asked eagerly.

“Of course he is,” Ghastly said with a smile, lifting his notebook and a pen. “In the meantime, why don’t you tell me your favourite colour?”

Stephanie blinked. “Er … I’m—I’m not sure I can afford something tailored. Not until I turn eighteen.”

Ghastly shrugged. “I’ll just put it on Skulduggery’s tab. Go nuts. Besides, if there’s been some trouble it’s the least I can do to help keep Gordon’s niece safe.”

“How does that work?”

“Not all of the clothes I make are merely examples of exquisite tailoring. Sometimes, if the situation arises, special requirements are catered for.”

“Such as keeping you safe until this whole thing is over,” Skulduggery said. “Ghastly can make you a suit, nothing too formal, which could very possibly save your life.”

“Fashion,” Ghastly said, “it’s life or death.” He cocked the pen at the page. “So, once more, do you have a favourite colour to wear?”

To go from her mother buying most of her clothes to this was a step Stephanie hadn’t been expecting. It was made worse with the fact that she kept glancing at Dexter, because she wanted to see him do some magic. “I don’t know, I’m not sure—”

Dexter looked at her critically. “I’d say red. Or blue. Red might stand out more. Blue with black is good.”

“Can’t go wrong with black,” Ghastly agreed, “and blue would be suitable for night work. But red would look better on her, I think. It’s her complexion. Nothing too bright, of course. How about it?”

“Okay?” Stephanie said, a little lost, and Ghastly scribbled some things in his notebook before closing it and setting it down on a small bureau. Then he took a seat in the armchair, both feet flat on the ground and fingers steepled, watching Dexter. Skulduggery folded his arms.

Dexter tweaked his sleeves, stretched his wrists by rotating his hands and extended them with a flourish.

“You’d better hurry up, before Skulduggery disintegrates from old age,” Erskine mumbled from his pillow, and Stephanie jumped. On a second look, she could see how his eyes were just barely slitted open.

“Art can’t be rushed,” Dexter said with great dignity, and then … did something. With his hands. He twisted them and pushed, and traced lines in the air. Where his palms went, there was a _shimmer_ , except when he gave another little push toward the floor as if nudging something into place, and when he took his hands away a plush little armchair done in soft blue velvet snapped into existence. He turned and bowed to Stephanie. “All yours.”

Awed, Stephanie moved forward to stroke the velvet arm, and then sit down gingerly. It was one of the most comfortable things she’d ever sat in. “This is amazing.”

“I am, aren’t I?”

“Don’t inflate his head too much,” Ghastly said. “My shop isn’t insured from magic.”

“But you could do with a major renovation,” Erskine muttered. “Move to a new street. A better street.”

“I like my street, Erskine.”

“Your street has people pissing on the corner of it, Ghastly.”

“It is amazing,” Stephanie insisted to interrupt what seemed like a brewing argument. She lounged back in the chair, curling her legs up and snuggling into it. “Skulduggery said you can make clothes and bridges. What else can you make? Why did you make a bridge?”

“Oh, all kinds of things,” Dexter said as he concentrated his palms downward and shaped another armchair out of midair. “Of course, my clothes aren’t _Ghastly_ clothes, which only makes them suitable for short-term disguises, but we used them all the time in the war. As for the bridge, we needed to cross a river in a hurry. _That_ was interesting; I’d never done that before. Or since. Wasn’t even sure if I could do it the first time.”

“What happened?” Stephanie asked eagerly as Dexter lifted Erskine’s lower legs and flopped down on the couch, then laid them over his lap.

“As amusing it would be to exchange war-stories,” Skulduggery said, taking a seat in the last free armchair, “we’re here on business.”

“He’s right. What’s this all about?” Ghastly asked.

“It’s about Gordon’s murder,” Skulduggery said, and there was a short pause.

“Erskine mentioned something about that,” Ghastly said. “About the books Gordon was leaving me?”

“We think they were clues,” Erskine mumbled through a yawn, turning on his side and stretching, then drawing up one foot. “While you’re down there, Dex, I don’t suppose you could rub my feet?”

“What am I, a masseur?” In spite of his words, Dex tugged up Erskine’s foot and curled his fingers around it to start a massage. “Just don’t tell Rover. He’ll get jealous.”

“He can make his own appointment.”

“He does seem to think he’s entitled. I might have to take him down a few pegs.”

“If we could focus on something other than Erskine and Rover’s feet, and Dex’s skill as a masseur, please?” Skulduggery interrupted.

“Why would we want to do that?”

“Because the charming young lady at whom you were both making eyes only last night will hit something, or someone, if we don’t figure out who murdered her uncle.”

“I don’t mind,” Stephanie said, and then added, “for now.” They were funny.

Erskine and Dexter glanced at one another. “Well,” said Erskine, “far be it for us to neglect a pretty lady.” He pulled the pillow under his head and waved a hand. “By all means, Skulduggery, continue.”

“Yes, do. Skul, usually when you lot want my help you just call and we go off and you get me into a fight. You’ve never explained what’s going on before, so why are you doing it now?”

“This is a different type of help we need.”

“So you don’t want me to hit anyone?”

“We could always call Anton if you’d prefer,” Dexter said, “except I think it’d make Rover jealous.”

“We think Serpine is responsible for Gordon’s death,” Skulduggery said, “and we’d like your help in finding out what Serpine is after.”

“Or rather, how,” Erskine added.

“I see,” Ghastly said, nodding his head.

“You don’t see, do you?”

“No,” Ghastly said immediately. “I really don’t know what you want me to do.”

“Serpine is after the Sceptre of the Ancients,” Stephanie said. Skulduggery sank lower in his armchair.

“The what?” Ghastly said, his smile reappearing. “You’re not serious, are you? Listen, I don’t know what my dear friends here have been saying, but the Sceptre isn’t real.”

“Of course it isn’t real,” Erskine said, “but that doesn’t mean Serpine can’t believe it is, and Gordon seems to believe that Serpine _does_ believe, if not believe in it himself.”

“How can you tell?”

“The books,” Dexter told him. “The books Gordon gave you. They were all about the Ancients and the Sceptre.” He grinned. “Or are you going to pretend that you weren’t disappointed he didn’t give you some of the others you’d been eyeing off?”

Ghastly frowned and sat back in his seat. “I admit I was … surprised … he didn’t give me some of the others he knew I would have liked,” he said carefully. “But that doesn’t prove that Serpine is after the Sceptre.”

“It does point an awful lot toward it, though,” Erskine observed.

For a moment Ghastly looked almost convinced, but then he shook his head and looked at Stephanie. “I’m sorry for your loss. I really am. I respected Gordon. He knew there was magic in the world and he wasn’t seduced by it. He just wanted to observe and to write about it. That takes a strength that I hope has been passed on to you.”

Stephanie didn’t answer. None of the three detectives looked at her.

“But,” Ghastly continued, “to say that his death has something to do with a legend that has been passed down from generation to generation, and that has changed with each telling, is just nonsense. He had a heart attack. He was mortal. He died. That’s what mortals do. Let him have his death.”

“Your friend Hopeless seemed to think there was more to it than that,” Stephanie said, and couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her tone. “Not that he _told_ us anything.”

Ghastly went very still, looking at her for a long moment before saying quietly, “Descry didn’t tell you anything? Deliberately?”

“Nothing,” Skulduggery said. “He knew something and refused to tell us. ‘Pick something else to talk about’ were his exact words. Of course, this was before we knew about the Sceptre, but you know Hopeless.”

“Yes,” Ghastly said with a very slow nod, still looking at Stephanie. “I do. What do you need me to do?”

Stephanie blinked. “Wait,” she blurted before anyone could explain, and even though she tried to keep herself calm she sounded angry. “You were just saying that it couldn’t be true. Now you’re going to help us just because Hopeless knows something he won’t even tell us?”

“Stephanie didn’t take it well,” Skulduggery said.

“He knows who killed Gordon!”

“She doesn’t seem to think much of promises.”

“He probably knows _why_!”

“He probably does,” Skulduggery agreed, and Stephanie got to her feet, looking at him, then the others.

“And all of you are just _okay_ with that? Isn’t that—isn’t that obstruction of justice or something?!”

“We tend to find that clinging too much to the letter of the law leads to getting strangled,” Dexter said delicately. Ghastly leaned forward.

“If Hopeless has made an oath to someone not to talk, it’s for good reason,” he said, and then looked at Erskine. “And if Gordon left clues in the books, then he knew we couldn’t rely on Hopeless to tell us.”

“That’s true,” Erskine said slowly.

“The question,” Skulduggery said, “is who Hopeless would make the oath to, and why. It wasn’t one of us, and it’s unlikely to have been Gordon, which means it could be anyone.”

“That’s helpful,” Stephanie grumbled, sitting down. “I thought you said he didn’t make promises lightly.”

“He doesn’t, but he’s also got a doctorate in psychology,” Dexter told her. “It could very well be a case of professional courtesy. He’s not going to out the secrets of his patients, is he?”

“He has _patients_?” Stephanie glared at Skulduggery. “You said it had to do with his _magic_.”

“It does,” Skulduggery said, “sort-of. His magic is the reason he studied psychology. Like Ghastly, he doesn’t advertise, but those who want his help—mostly people who fought in the war—know how to contact him.”

“How?” Stephanie asked waspishly, “with smoke-signals?”

“If I didn’t know any better I’d think you didn’t like him, Stephanie.”

“I don’t. He knows who killed Gordon and he’s not telling.”

Ghastly smiled faintly, Erskine chuckled humourlessly, his arm over his eyes to keep off the light, and Dexter shook his head without looking up from massaging Erskine’s foot. He sighed, “Ah, to be young and see things in stark shades again.”

Stephanie glared at him.

“I don’t think it’s entirely a case of professional courtesy,” Skulduggery said. “It may be how things started, but Descry would have dropped more hints if that’s all it was. This is personal.”

“You’re right,” Erskine murmured after a pause. “He stretches the rules when he can, but when it’s personal he shuts up tighter than a nun’s chastity belt.”

“What do you need me to do?” Ghastly repeated. Skulduggery looked at him.

“We need to see the rest of your family’s collection.”

For the second time, Ghastly went very still. “You want me to open the Vault,” he said after a moment.

“Yes.”

“Well then.” Ghastly pushed himself to his feet. “We’d better get going.”


	7. Underground treasures

The Bentley was too squashy to fit them all, so Ghastly drove his van as well. Erskine went with him, grumbling about his massage being interrupted and claiming that Dexter should have chaperones before Rover started laying unfounded blame. Dexter immediately called him on his mobile and they spent the whole drive shooting each other wild accusations over speakerphone, occasionally aided or hindered by either Ghastly or Skulduggery.

Stephanie stayed quiet. From the very moment she’s seen the Dead Men she’d thought they were strange, but now she knew they were even stranger. It wasn’t the way some of them looked, or the way they teased one another. It was the way they didn’t seem to question each other. They stopped and asked questions, but only so all of them could figure something out.

She didn’t get it, how these men could know that their friend knew something and not care.

Skulduggery glanced at her, quiet for now while Dexter chatted in the backseat, a lot like Crystal did when she was on the phone to her friends. “Still annoyed?”

“Yes,” Stephanie said shortly, and wasn’t going to say anything else. A moment later she changed her mind. “Why aren’t you? I thought Gordon was your friend.”

“He was.”

“Then why didn’t you make your other _friend_ tell us what he knows?”

“Because I trust Descry with my life,” Skulduggery said simply.

“You’re dead.”

“With my un-life, then,” Skulduggery corrected, and then went on before Stephanie could pull that apart too. “My point is, I know Descry well enough to know when to trust him even when he says nothing. He’s saved all of us more times than I can count, and lot of those times were because he knows how to keep his mouth shut.”

Stephanie said nothing else up until they pulled into the Art Gallery parking lot.

“We shouldn’t take too long,” Ghastly said as he and Erskine came over. “It’s getting near closing time and we don’t want to be in there when the nightshift comes on.”

“Why not?” Stephanie asked. “Do they not know about magic or something?”

Ghastly smiled grimly. “No. They’re vampires.”

“Oh, lovely,” Skulduggery said.

“Wonderful,” Dexter muttered.

“Joy,” Erskine mumbled, and there was something odd about his tone. When Stephanie glanced at him she was startled to find he was rather pale, and when he smiled at her it was hard. “Bet you didn’t expect that, did you?”

Stephanie shrugged casually. “It’s magic. I’m assuming everything is real. But it can’t be too bad, can it? It’s nowhere near night-time yet.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Erskine said, moving toward the entrance. “Vampires tan in the sun, like anyone else.”

“Except me,” Skulduggery said cheerfully. “I just bleach.”

Stephanie trailed after Erskine, jogging to keep up with his fast pace. “So sunlight has no effect on them?”

“It dampens their powers,” Erskine said. “During the day they’re pretty much mortal, but when the sun goes down their powers flare up. They’ll get here at closing-time. It would be nice to be gone by then.”

“But if they’re mortal during the day we could easily sneak past them even if we’re not out by closing,” Stephanie pointed out, a little breathless from trying to keep up. “As long as we get out by sunset.”

“Theoretically, sure,” Dexter said with a shrug by her side, and he put a hand on her arm to slow her down. “Just let him walk it off,” he said quietly, letting Erskine pull away from the rest of them.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Erskine’s got a bad history with vampires,” Ghastly told her. “He doesn’t like meeting them even when they’re in their mortal guises.”

“Why?”

“It’s their animal magnetism,” Dexter said, and then they reached the doors and there were too many people around for Stephanie to ask for a proper answer. Erskine was waiting at the end of the entrance gallery, looking calmer but still like he wanted to get this over with.

The gallery was big and spacious and white. There were huge glass sections in the walls. The main hall was full of paintings and sculptures, arranged so it was neither cluttered nor sparse. They moved through it without more than an idle glance around, not exactly looking like people on a mission but not taking their time to linger either.

They got to a small alcove, away from the main hub of the gallery. Within this alcove was a heavy wooden door, criss-crossed by a grid of bolted steel. Ghastly took out a key and unlocked the door, and one by one they slipped through while no one was looking. He led the way down beneath the gallery, a flame in his hand lighting the steps. It was cold down here. They were in an old corridor with heavy doors on either side, and they walked until they came to a door with a crest etched into it—a shield and a bear. Ghastly raised both hands and lowered his head and didn’t move for almost a minute. Then the door clicked and they stepped in.

Ghastly snapped his fingers and candles flared up all around the chamber. There were books piled on books, and artefacts and statues, and paintings and wood-carvings, and there was even a suit of armour.

“This is all to do with the Sceptre?” Stephanie asked in awe.

“It’s all to do with the Ancients,” Ghastly said with a smile. “My mother had an interest, and I think her father did as well. They did most of the collecting.”

“I honestly didn’t expect there to be this much,” Skulduggery said, looking around. “And Gordon was giving you _more_?”

“That’s what a collection _is_ , you know.” Ghastly stood still for a moment, rubbing a hand over his head. “I’ve really been meaning to come in and tidy things up, though. I’ve no idea where anything is.”

“Good thing we’re going to give you something to do, then,” Dexter said, clapping him on the back and moving deeper into the chamber.

“Just what I always needed,” Ghastly muttered. Erskine had already dived into the search without a word, and Stephanie glanced around before picking the area near a painting of a man holding up what she assumed was the Sceptre. She studied it for a little while and then looked through the paintings behind it, and when she straightened she was faced directly with a suit of armour bearing the same crest as had been on the door.

“Is that your family crest, Ghastly?” she asked, pointing. Ghastly looked up where he was looking at something Erskine had pulled out.

“Yes, it is,” he said. “The bear belonged to my grandfather’s clan. His family were all mortals, and renowned for having fought the Vikings. My grandmother’s family were magical—I’m not quite sure how far back—but the shield came from her side. My mother saw no need to add onto it, and neither have I.”

“Add on?”

“We don’t have family names we can keep,” Skulduggery explained without looking up from something he held. “So crests serve as our only link to our ancestors.”

“Do you have a crest?”

He hesitated, and Dexter ducked his head. “I used to. I don’t anymore. Dexter does, though. Erskine’s still been too lazy about development.”

“I’m just making sure it’s _perfect_ before I submit it to the annals of history,” Erskine said with dignity.

Stephanie frowned, turning to Skulduggery. “Why don’t you have one anymore?”

“I abandoned it, actually.” He was turned studiously away.

“Why?”

“You ask an awful lot of questions.”

“When I grow up I want to be a detective just like you.”

Dexter laughed and Skulduggery looked over to see her grinning. He laughed too. “I suppose you do share my penchant for raising Cain.”

“Raising what now?”

“It means Skulduggery,” Erskine said with a smirk.

“It’s an old expression,” Ghastly explained tolerantly. “It means to make trouble.”

“See, why can’t you say ‘make trouble’?” Stephanie asked Skulduggery. “Why do you always have to use these words that I don’t know?”

“Obviously, it’s to expand upon your knowledge and inquisitiveness,” Dexter said in a very pompous accent which, for reasons beyond Stephanie, made Erskine snort.

“What _are_ you looking at?” Ghastly asked Skulduggery, and the skeleton held a small box up to the light, turning it over in his hands and examining it from every angle.

“What’s that?” Stephanie asked.

“It’s a puzzle-box.”

Stephanie opened her mouth to tell him to play with it later, but Erskine and Dexter exchanged glances, dropping whatever they were holding and moving closer like kids summoned by an ice-cream truck. “A puzzle-box?” Erskine asked eagerly. “Like a puzzle puzzle-box? Like a puzzle-box with things inside?”

“A puzzle-box with _special_ things inside?” Dexter demanded.

Skulduggery tilted his head in a way Stephanie thought was longsufferingly amused. “I assume so. It was the crest I found interesting.”

“The crest?” Stephanie repeated, a little bit lost, and Skulduggery tilted the puzzle-box up to show the carving on its base—a leopard and crossed swords.

“ _Oh_ ,” Ghastly said in a tone of realisation, turning to move back to the paintings Stephanie had been looking through. He pulled them out one by one until he reached one of a man holding the Sceptre aloft. “Whoever painted this made that box.”

“Ergo, they’re related,” Erskine said gleefully, and slapped Dexter on the shoulder.

“Elementary, my dear Watson,” Dexter said in a British accent. Erskine stuck out his tongue.

“Steal my thunder, why don’t you.”

“Actually, I believe it’s my thunder,” Skulduggery corrected.

“Take your thunder and roll it already,” Ghastly said. Skulduggery shrugged gracefully.

“If you insist.”

His fingers played over the surface of the box and Stephanie saw his head tilt. He pressed his hands against opposite sides, making subtle rotations until something clicked. There was a noise, like the whirring of a motorised part, and then the top of the box opened.

“Ah,” Skulduggery said.

“Huh,” Ghastly said.

“Oooooh.” Erskine peered in.

“Pretty,” Dexter murmured.

“What is it?” Stephanie demanded.

It was a rock.

 

“Just like that, you know where the Sceptre is?” Stephanie stared at Skulduggery. “From a few words and a musty old book?” She turned in her seat to look at Dexter and talk into his phone. “Is he always like this?”

“Always,” Ghastly said over the roar of his van. “The really annoying part is that he’s nearly always right.”

“I’d tease him for not thinking of the obvious,” Dexter grumbled, “but we didn’t think of it either.”

“Does Gordon really have secret passages under his mansion?”

“Of course not,” Erskine said, voice raised over the wind and the engine. “It’s all a lie we’ve been telling you. All that magic malarkey? Psh. Remember the last time we were down there?”

“You went down there?” Stephanie asked, instinctively leaning closer to the phone. “What for? I thought you said that it was booby-trapped.”

Skulduggery tilted his head as if to look at Dexter out of the corner of his eye. “You’ve been down there? I don’t remember this.”

“Of course you don’t,” Dexter told him. “You were the one we were looking for.” He glanced at Stephanie and rolled his eyes, but there was something not-quite-right about his smile. “We were in the middle of a war that had already lasted for over a century, and Skulduggery still managed to go and get himself _lost_.”

“It was extremely inconsiderate of him,” Erskine agreed.

“I was tempted to tailor him some awful suits on principle,” Ghastly put in. Stephanie glanced at Skulduggery, who was being oddly quiet. Then, abruptly, he spoke.

“At least that means we won’t have any problems with getting lost when we get inside, then, will we?”

“Tombs change a lot in a century, dead man,” Dexter pointed out.

“Mine didn’t.”

“You’re a special case.”

“I am, aren’t I?”

“If you’ve been down there before,” Stephanie interrupted, “why don’t you know what the key looks like?”

“Excellent question,” Skulduggery said.

“Because we didn’t go in through the mansion,” Erskine said. “We went in via another route. A route which included judicious and masterful use of water and heat to crack the ground right over one of the tunnels.”

“So why can’t we just use the same entrance?”

“Because we kind of blew it up on our way out,” Dexter admitted. “Did you ever see that pile of rocks out by the stream, in that little dip in the ground where the pond is?”

Stephanie turned over Gordon’s grounds in her head, remembering when she used to explore the grounds instead of the house. The house had always been more fascinating for her, with its secret passage, but she remembered the pond because it was where she had learned to swim. She had only been two years old or something like that, too young to risk letting out into the ocean, but where a little pond was just right. The pond hadn’t stayed ‘just right’ for long, and she’d soon abandoned it for larger bodies of water, but now someone had prompted her she did remember it.

“Yes,” she said. “I learned to swim there. In two years it was too small, so I started swimming in the ocean.”

“A century ago there wasn’t a pond there.”

“Oh.” She blinked. “You made the pond?”

“Well, not _me_ ,” Dexter began.

“It was a joint effort,” Erskine finished.

“We were being chased by some very nasty things,” Ghastly explained. “We flooded the tunnel and then destroyed the exit, and the groundwater built up into the pond. It’s still clear, isn’t it?”

“Yes, you can see the bottom. It’s only about two feet deep, though, and then it spills over the edge of the rocks and down the hill.”

“So it’s still running water,” Erskine mused. “That’s good to know.”

“But all blocked off?”

“Completely blocked off,” Dexter said. “Although I can’t say I’m unhappy about not going that way again. Actually, I’d be happy not going down there again _ever_ , but oh well.” He shrugged. “Die all, die merrily.”

“About that,” Stephanie began. “Why _are_ you called the Dead Men? Is it because of Skulduggery?”

Erskine laughed. “Not exactly, although he may have been part of the inspiration. No, that was—when? About halfway through the war?”

“About that,” said Ghastly. “It might have been Tome, when he realised where he was meant to take us.”

“Who?”

“Sagacious Tome,” Skulduggery said. “He’s one of Ireland’s Elders, and a teleporter.”

“That mission.” Dexter leaned in, smiling. “It wasn’t our first mission together, but it was an especially suicidal mission. We volunteered, and everyone called us dead men for our trouble. No one expected us to come back.”

“Except that we did,” said Erskine, “and the name stuck. We already had a reputation by then. That mission just made things official.”

“Skulduggery’s was the first hand up,” said Ghastly. “I thought he had a plan, so I put mine up too.”

“I didn’t have a plan.”

“I noticed that when I asked you what the plan was and you looked at me and said, ‘Plan? What plan?’”

“You really should have been used to that by then.”

“It was a _suicide mission_ , Skulduggery.”

“Your point being? It isn’t as if _I_ can die.”

Stephanie laughed. It all made a lot of sense. “Did you do a lot of those missions?”

“After that we did,” said Dexter. “We were the only ones crazy enough to pull them off.”

“So if you guys went into these really dangerous, suicidal tunnels that means a sorcerer owned the house, right? Who was he?”

She got the impression from the way Dexter’s head twitched that he would have looked at someone else if he’d had someone beside him. There was an equally pregnant pause on the other end of the phone conversation before Erskine answered. “His name was Tierney Glory. He didn’t build it, but he owned it.”

Stephanie snorted. “Glory? Who names himself Glory? Did you know him? You sound like you knew him.”

“I met him when I was younger,” Erskine admitted, “He wasn’t very nice then either, but I didn’t think he’d be the type to throw people in a pit of magic-eating monsters. I’m _pretty_ sure he was compensating.”

“Oh, definitely compensating,” Dexter agreed. “Nothing says compensating like ‘I’ll throw you in a pit of magic-eating monsters if you look at me wrong’.”

“Compensating for what?” Stephanie persisted. She was starting to notice a pattern here. Anytime the Dead Men talked about something really serious, they laid on thickly with the jokes. She just had to keep at them and they’d start telling the truth.

“What made you think I was down there?” Skulduggery asked before she could get an answer.

“He sent a letter to Corrival,” Ghastly said. “We couldn’t take the risk that he wasn’t lying.”

“Who’s Corrival?”

Skulduggery turned toward her. “Corrival Deuce was the general in command of our unit. A good man.”

“So why would Glory send him a letter?”

“Because Glory was his younger brother,” Dexter said simply.

“Oh,” Stephanie said, and then frowned. “What?”

Dexter smiled ruefully and rather bitterly. “Corrival’s father was a sorcerer, a clansman. His mother was just a mortal and from a lesser class. They weren’t married, and back then, that was important to sorcerers.”

“She tried to get Corrival recognised as an heir to the clan,” Erskine said, “but the most his father would stoop to was finding him a good wife. His claim to the family crest was never recognised. They didn’t need him; they had his younger brother Glory to carry on the bloodline, and they raised him with a hell of a chip on his shoulder. As you can probably tell by, well, his name.”

“Glory remained as neutral as possible in the war,” Ghastly continued, “but eventually his habit of shoving people into his own personal Zoo of Death attracted Mevolent’s attention and they had him killed. Corrival was the last remaining member of the bloodline, recognition or no recognition, so he got the deed. He was only too happy to sell them to Gordon. I don’t think he ever set foot in the house, did he?”

“Just once,” Erskine said, and there was a moment of heavy silence that made Stephanie’s heart skip.

“Ah,” said Skulduggery. “Of course.”

“The only time he went in after that was after Gordon bought it,” Erskine went on as if there hadn’t been a pause at all. “And that was just to drop in and declare that Gordon had better taste in internal decorating.”

Stephanie’s curiosity was almost burning her, but Dexter looked so sober that she didn’t dare ask. “So he was your commander,” she said instead, already liking the sound of this man whose half-brother wasn’t very nice. “What was he like?”

The rest of the short drive was occupied with stories about the war. As they got out of the cars Stephanie decided that most of them were fictional, because even though the four men were very good at picking up one another’s sentences, they never took anything seriously enough for the stories to be real.

The cellar was chilly and dark, and the single bulb hanging amid cobwebs wasn’t doing its job very well. Countless years’ worth of junk was collecting dust down here, and from somewhere in the dark corners came the occasional scuffle of rats. Stephanie wasn’t scared of rats as a rule, but she wasn’t too keen on them either, so she stayed away from the corners. So, she noticed, did Dexter, even though he didn’t seem to have anything against getting dusty and dove into Gordon’s things.

Skulduggery and Erskine had no such qualms, but Erskine was more careful about keeping his suit free of webs. Stephanie couldn’t tell if it was because he didn’t want his suit to get dirty or didn’t want to disturb the spiders; but she thought maybe it was the second one when he stooped to pick up a spider by its single gossamer thread and put it gently in an untouched corner. Ghastly seemed mostly interested in poking around Gordon’s junk. Skulduggery examined the walls, scanning their surface as he moved sideways along them. Now and then he’d tap the wall, mutter to himself or to one of the others, and then move on.

“Are you certain you don’t know where the keyhole is?” he asked the room at large.

“Sure, we just came down to visit the rats,” Dexter said with a shudder, picking up something so covered in cobwebs that it was a shapeless bulk and then putting it down again.

“Oh. Well, never mind, then.” Skulduggery patted the wall. “I found it.”

Stephanie moved closer. Skulduggery’s hand was flat against the wall. He moved it and she could see a slight indentation, almost invisible to the naked eye. “That’s the lock?”

“It looks more like an imperfection in the stone,” Dexter pointed out.

“You would know all about imperfections,” Erskine teased.

“Having to look at you all day long? Of course.”

“If I didn’t know any better,” Skulduggery said, “I’d think you were doubting my capabilities.”

“Who, us?”

“Why would we do that?”

“An overwhelming sense of masochism, probably,” Ghastly said. “Is there a spell we can break?”

“No,” Skulduggery answered glumly. “It’s a good old-fashioned key-required lock.”

“Knowing Glory, the door’s probably on the opposite side of the room, too,” Erskine muttered.

“I thought you only met him once?” Stephanie asked, and Erskine shrugged.

“Corrival used to talk about him, and I’ve known Corrival since I was twenty. Either way, we need the key.”

“I don’t suppose we’d find it on one of Gordon’s keyrings,” Stephanie muttered.

“That’d be too easy and no fun,” Dexter said. “This way we can go treasure hunting. Fun for everyone.”

“What do you think?” Ghastly asked Skulduggery. The detective nodded slowly.

“I think Dexter’s regressing in age,” he said, “and I also think it’s time we visited a certain collector.”

Stephanie watched with curious amusement as Dexter cleared his throat and looked away. When she glanced toward Erskine his face was stony, but when he saw her looking he deliberately made a face.

“Do we have to?” he complained. “Didn’t I lodge a written complaint about having to use the resources of people who are prettier than me?”

“Who?” Stephanie asked, and then added to Dexter, “Do you know your ears have gone red?”

It was meant to be a tease, but she didn’t expect the way Erskine’s head snapped around and the horrified expression that crossed his face. “Dex, you didn’t.”

Dexter spread his hands defensively with a shrug. “What? She offered. I was bored. And maybe a teensy bit drunk. It’s not like we’re on opposite sides anymore.”

“But _China Sorrows_?!” Erskine gestured wildly as they moved back upstairs to the car. “It’s like bedding a viper. Or maybe a vampire.”

The last was muttered, so much so that Stephanie wouldn’t have heard it if she hadn’t been right behind him. She really wanted to ask about his ‘bad history with vampires’, but with the way he’d reacted just to the idea of meeting them, she didn’t dare. Or dare ask just what Dexter had done with this ‘China Sorrows’, although she figured she could guess. She was twelve, not stupid.

“Like I said, I was bored. Very, very bored, without anything to occupy my attention.” As defensive as the words were, Dexter’s tone was actually more apologetic than anything else.

“You always have gotten masochistic when you’re bored,” Skulduggery agreed, and then went on, “China Sorrows is a collector, like Gordon. She owns a library in Dublin. She’s very intelligent, very beautiful and very manipulative.”

“Like a viper,” Erskine mumbled. They made the living-room and moved toward the door.

“I thought you like pretty ladies?” Stephanie teased.

“I like my apples red too,” he retorted. “That doesn’t mean I’ll bite into one I know has a rotten core.”

“Is she really that bad?”

“She used to be on Mevolent’s side,” Ghastly admitted. “During the war she became neutral.”

“That’s good, isn’t it? She wasn’t fighting you anymore.”

“Well, no,” Ghastly allowed. “But make no mistake; China isn’t out for anyone’s interests and—” He glanced at Dexter. “—pleasures but her own. She can’t be trusted.”

“So why are we going to see her?” Stephanie asked, jogging to keep up with him as they moved out of the house and down to the cars.

“‘We’ doesn’t include you,” Skulduggery corrected, looking at the sky. “It’s getting late. Your parents will be wanting you home for dinner.”

Stephanie scowled, opening her mouth and glancing at her watch at the same time. She muttered something uncomplimentary when she realised he was right. “Fine. Why are _you_ going to see her, then?”

“Because,” Dexter said, “she likes to show off.”

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Erskine said. He looked more angry than sick. “Fine, go and have a blast.”

“Nah,” Dexter said with a shrug. “I’ve got a date tonight anyway, and Anton said he’d pick me up tomorrow morning. But I’ll go and make sure Skulduggery doesn’t do something he’ll regret.”

Some of the tension went out of Erskine’s shoulders. “Yes, well, _I’ve_ had enough of detecting and _some_ of us don’t have dates, so I’m going to stay here with Ghastly to sort out some of these books he just got.”

“Are you saying I’m not a date?” Ghastly said in an injured tone.

“Are you saying you want to be one?” Erskine asked with a remarkably unforced grin. They were still bantering as they headed back toward the door and the others got into the car. Ghastly waved as the Bentley pulled away, and then turned to follow Erskine into the mansion.

 

Unlike Erskine, Dexter actually could drive, and drive well. Maybe not as well as Skulduggery, but then again, not many people were as good at driving as Skulduggery. He cheated, anyway. He didn’t have problems with adrenaline and muscle spasms and lapses of focus. Being a skeleton had its perks.

Dexter didn’t have a car, though. Not exactly a car. It _looked_ like a car and it _drove_ like a car, and the first dozen times he’d constructed it he’d been out like a light within a few minutes, but practice made perfect and being able to construct his own vehicles was too useful to pass up. A motorbike would have been smaller, but a man had to maintain some dignity.

That being said, his cars were always tiny two-door little things. They got him from one place to another and looked nice, but he was still working on things like radios and air-conditioners. He did, however, have a hands-free phone jack. Much more important, that, since he could feed the radio through his phone.

It also meant he could talk to people while he was driving home, as long as he could stop yawning from his … almost … sleepless night. It was already broad daylight.

“Where are you headed now?” he asked Skulduggery.

“To Haggard,” the detective answered. “The Elders want to talk to me about Stephanie.”

Dexter laughed, and because there was no one around to hear it except Skulduggery, he let it be sardonic. “Oh, that’ll be fun. Want company?”

“I think I can manage to get into trouble all by myself. I’m going to take Stephanie, though.”

“Presenting the wildcat running roughshod all over you?”

“Exactly. And I promised to tell her what China said.”

Which hadn’t been much of anything, really. She’d known about the Sceptre, of course, and Gordon hadn’t given her anything recently, which wasn’t surprising. Gordon trusted China about as much as Skulduggery did. She’d said she _might_ call if she heard anything, but even that wasn’t really a guarantee unless she thought she could get something out of it.

“You like her,” Dexter said.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You do. You cradle-robber.” It wasn’t like that. That was the only reason Dexter felt okay about saying it. It wasn’t like that because, according to Ghastly and Hopeless’s stories about Skulduggery’s life before skeletonism, Stephanie was about the same age his daughter had been when she’d been murdered.

“Oh, very well, you’ve discovered my secret. What are you doing today?”

“Going home. Anton said he’d pick me up outside Descry’s. Erskine and Ghastly didn’t really find anything except more of the same, by the way.”

“Then the clues are somewhere else. I’ll think of it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to pick up my date.”

Dexter laughed and disconnected. Soon he was taking the car slowly around the deep ruts of the corner leading up to Hopeless’s place. Anton’s Hotel had been in Luxemburg for the past twelve hours, and Dexter had arranged to get picked up for a good day’s sleep. The building was tied into ley-lines, and as it happened—purely by coincidence—Hopeless’s cottage was located right next to one. It made a convenient meeting-point. Which, of course, was the point of the coincidence.

Dexter rounded the bushes and pulled up outside the garden, stepping out of the construct and cancelling it. Then, humming, he turned toward the cottage to drop in on Hopeless while he waited—and stopped.

Hopeless’s blue truck was there, beside the tree. It was untouched. But the garden looked like someone with very big feet—a lot of people with very big feet—had been stomping all over it. The chicken coop was sagging, the chickens nowhere in sight. The cottage door was hanging on one hinge, its lantern smashed on the ground. Something very cold clenched in Dexter’s chest and before he knew it he was running for the door, shoving past its bulk and into the Hopeless’s house.

Before he even got there he knew he’d find it empty.


	8. The torture room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for graphic torture.

It had been a beautiful night for pain. Serpine hadn’t indulged this time, because he had a hypothesis to confirm, but he had, for once, allowed some of his more creative human employees to have free rein.

He watched his very important guest through the one-way window. The man was shackled to a chair so tightly that his head was almost the only thing he could move, though he wasn’t, currently, trying to do so. The bindings weren’t bespelled, but only because of Serpine’s hypothesis. This man had never shown a hint of magical combat ability. Serpine had allowed one of his more restrained underlings to have a hand at this particular guest—just enough to rough him up. It wasn’t a physical pain Serpine intended him to feel.

Serpine was already smiling. He went to the heavy wooden door and paused with his hand over the latch, savouring this moment. This hypothesis explained everything. Why the war had, several times, tilted so wildly away from his master’s cause for no apparent reason. Why Eachan Meritorious, alone of all the rebellion’s leaders, had been so impossible to kill. How he had known just where and when to thwart the Faceless Ones’ faithful so many times. Why Serpine’s own master had been so obsessed with this man so near the end of the war. It was really rather obvious, in retrospect.

The latch lifted and Serpine stepped in. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced,” he said. “Nefarian Serpine. And you, I believe, are Hopeless. The Dead Men sometimes call you Descry, don’t they?”

Hopeless raised his head. One eye was already swelling up from his welcome earlier in the night. He said nothing, but his gaze was on Serpine and filled with that particular expression of suffering. Serpine had always enjoyed that expression. He enjoyed it particularly now as further evidence of his suspicions.

Serpine smiled as he sat in the wooden chair opposite. “What was it you were called? Ah, yes. _Meritorious’s shadow_. His manservant. No one ever took a second look at you, did they? If they even took a first?”

Hopeless said nothing. He was one of those, then. At least someone like Skulduggery Pleasant provided a bit of amusing, if simple, banter before the screaming. Then again, Serpine did enjoy the sound of his own voice. Especially when he was unravelling a centuries-old mystery.

“Of course,” he continued, watching his guest, “that was the point. You were Meritorious’s greatest asset. The reason he won the war. Tell me.” Serpine leaned forward and those eyes tracked him. “Does he listen to you anymore? After all, he’s done nothing to stop me, and a man like you—you know what’s coming, don’t you?”

Not a word. Not even a flicker. Hopeless was a very controlled man indeed. He had to be, of course, given what he’d already faced and survived—and yet not let any of it show in his expression. Serpine knew he’d be dealing with a man of strength.

But not strong enough.

“You know what’s coming,” Serpine repeated softly. “You know precisely what’s been going on past these walls. You’ve felt the pain. I believe one of my other prisoners had one of his limbs torn off. Did you feel that? Or perhaps the one whose eyes were gouged out. Did you feel that? Oh, yes. There was also that pregnant woman. I wonder what happened to her child …”

There it was. The flicker. Hopeless’s mouth thinned, his throat working as if to keep bile down, and that expression in his eyes darkened.

“You know,” Serpine breathed, “precisely what I’m about to do to you— _mind-reader_.”

He let those thoughts dance deliberately across his mind, things he had done before. Cutting Hopeless’s skin, never enough to be lethal on their own, but many, overlapping, irritant and never-ending. Ripping off his fingernails, leaving them bloodied and torn. Or perhaps a crippling blow. A knee, maybe.

But, no. Physical damage had its lure, true, but Serpine did have some new tricks up his sleeve. There was one which was quite interesting and involved the manipulation of basic parts of an object. He remembered testing it on a conveniently present man. The way his bones cracked as they shifted, bursting through flesh and skin. The way the man screamed and writhed and gurgled as his ribs tore through his lungs.

Hopeless had gone pale, but he still looked back steadily. There was no disdain in his expression, but there was a sort of preparedness. The sort that spoke of no fear. Serpine’s eyes narrowed. If Hopeless thought he had already seen the worst Mevolent’s generals could offer, Serpine was going to prove him wrong.

“I want the key. Tell me where Edgley hid the key, and I promise I will make this short. I’ll even start with something more mundane. I wouldn’t want to break you _too_ quickly.”

“No.”

Just one word. Short and quiet, but not brittle.

“As you please.” Serpine reached into his coat and withdrew a small blade, nearly a scalpel. “Let’s start small, shall we?”


	9. A general intent

Something was in the air. Most people, when hearing a phrase indicating that tension was a physical thing, assumed it was nothing more than metaphor. They were wrong. Anton had seen war and tension, when it grew thick enough, had a very real weight. It was an indication that conflict was imminent.

Something had been in the air for days now—since before Gordon Edgley’s death. Anton heard quite a bit from the people who frequented his Hotel. There had been rumours. Suggestions. Petty criminals buckling down to wait out the storm. Gordon’s death had only worsened the feeling.

For all that, life went on. The Midnight Hotel transitioned from place-to-place as it always did, occasionally stopping by Ireland to pick up or drop off either Dexter or Rover. It was on the way, after all. Anywhere in the world was ‘on the way’ for the Midnight Hotel.

Rover had actually come home last night and the Hotel was for once empty aside from their guests in  
Room 24, so Anton wasn’t surprised when the Elemental stumbled downstairs in nothing but a pair of sweatpants, yawning and with his hair all over the place.

“Is he ba-a-a-ack yet?” Rover asked, hand over his mouth.

“We aren’t leaving for another half-an-hour,” Anton told him calmly without looking up from the reception desk and the names he was checking off. Some of them had tried to sneak out without paying. They only ever tried once. If they couldn’t pay right away, he promised to track them down. The Hotel was neutral ground; it wasn’t a free ride into another country to escape the law. Anton finished checking the names of his last patrons and looked up. “I’d say you were missing him, Rover.”

“Of course I’m missing him,” Rover grumbled, leaning on the counter. “You refuse to cuddle while we’re sleeping. I need something to cuddle at night and you’re denying me, you cruel person.”

“That’s what teddy-bears are for.”

“And I’m perfectly happy with my Dexter-shaped teddy-bear. Or I would be, if he was here.” Rover raised a finger. “You know, if you’re not going to pick him up before bed-time the _least_ you could do is compensate me by sleeping in the same bed. What, suddenly you’re too old to sleep together?”

Anton grunted, looking down to finish counting out the money and sort it by nationality. Banks always demanded a fee for changing currencies. He kept the money under lock and key until he reached any particular nation. It saved a bit of cash. “We’re not sleeping in cramped tents and tavern-rooms anymore.”

“But you’ll sleep with me when we’re with _Dexter_?”

“Dexter doesn’t cuddle me.”

“I see how it is.” Rover shuffled across the desk, leaning so far over it that he covered half the money; Anton moved his arm, so Rover tilted his head to peer at him. “You’re playing _favourites_. I’m not your favourite anymore? I think I’ll have to fix this.”

“Good luck,” Anton said mildly as the phone rang, and he reached out to pick it up. “Midnight Hote—”

Dexter’s voice came through so loudly that Anton jerked the phone back and Rover jumped in surprise. “ _GET HERE RIGHT NOW!_ ”

“What happened?” Anton demanded, already turning to slide up the timber cover over the world map inset behind the counter. The keys on the hooks jangled as he did. Rover came around the edge to shove the money back into its bags and put them in the safe under the desk.

“Someone’s taken Hopeless,” Dexter said, his voice hard like it got when he was tense. “There’s been a fight at his place and he’s not anywhere. Someone’s stomped all over his garden, his chicken coop needs fixing, his computer’s smashed to bits and—”

Something hot and heavy turned in Anton’s chest. “Dexter, I have to hang up or the phone will short out.”

“Just get here.” The call ended. Anton all but tossed his phone onto the desk, concentrating on the map. It looked like an ordinary map. It wasn’t. The contours of the ground were a little off, different to an ordinary map but more accurate in a way no mortal could understand. He traced one of the lines between the Hotel’s location in Luxemburg and a very specific location in Ireland. One he visited regularly.

The line lit up where his finger touched it, the light travelling along it. The Hotel’s foundation trembled faintly, an inaudible vibration like electricity in the walls. Or magic. A moment later there was a soft thud as the foundation locked into place.

Rover was already running toward the door. Anton locked the safe and then followed at a slower, but no less purposeful pace. The door slammed open out onto the small meadow facing Hopeless’s cottage. Rover didn’t stop, making a break for the house, but Anton heard him let out a strangled groan.

“Anton, the bees—”

Anton made the door and glanced toward the shed where Hopeless kept the bees still needing a hive. It had been flattened and was silent; not a bee was in sight. The bee-hives were behind the Hotel. Anton spared a moment to pause and listen, and heard nothing from them either. When he went to the corner he saw they’d all been overturned, the hives fled or dead. So were the chickens. The whole area had that air of heavy silence, the aftermath of a scene of violence. Anton was familiar with that air.

“Anton! Rover!” Anton turned to move toward the cottage. Dexter was at the door, pale. He gripped the doorframe and shook his head. “Glass smashed. Computer on the floor. Books all over the place. He’s gone.” His grip on the door tightened and there was a soft fizzle as his face hardened. “Serpine took him.”

“Serpine?” Anton demanded.

“Hey, woah now!” Rover yanked Dexter out of the doorway and took one of his hands, and then yelped at the heat in them. He lifted it up and blew on Dexter’s fingers, wagging one of his own in the Adept’s face. “No going around making Descry’s cottage fizzle out of existence. That’s just rude.”

In spite of everything Dexter managed a twitch of a smile, and some of the tension went out of his shoulders. “Serpine probably killed Gordon,” he said, “because Serpine wants the Sceptre and Gordon knows where it is, and Descry apparently knows all about everything that’s going on but he’s oath-bound and can’t tell us. Now _he’s_ gone so Serpine apparently knows he knows too—”

“Breathe,” Anton said. Dexter exhaled with a whoosh and his shoulders slumped. Anton glanced at Rover. Rover looked back, frowning. Dexter had been filling them in by phone or in person, but by drips, drabs and teases. He’d never said outright that Serpine was involved, as obvious as it was.

“And Stephanie’s involved in all of this,” Rover muttered. “Great. Fergus is _definitely_ going to kill me.”

“Better Hopeless than Stephanie,” Anton said grimly.

Rover’s head snapped around. “How can you say that?”

“Do you think Hopeless would appreciate having a twelve-year-old take his place?”

“It’s not a choice between them.” Rover shook his head. “This can’t happen again. It _won’t_ happen again.”

“It won’t,” Anton agreed, and moved past Dexter into the house. “Call the others. Make sure Erskine is with someone before you tell him.” Erskine was a good man. A good sorcerer. A decent detective, most of the time, except that he had trouble focussing when it became personal.

This was very, very personal.

“Better let me do that,” Rover said, plucking Dexter’s phone out of his pocket before Dexter could pick it up again. “Or you might fizzle it out of existence. Really, Dex, you need to work on your stamina.” He grinned a grin that only looked forced to someone who knew Rover as well as they did, but Dexter still grinned back.

Anton heard Rover call Skulduggery, but he was focussed on the cottage. There were things in Hopeless’s cottage which even Skulduggery and Erskine, trusted employees of the Sanctuary, weren’t allowed to see. Things like the journals of all the Elders who had come before. Last Anton had heard, Hopeless had nearly finished digitalising them. Which meant he was onto the most relevant Elder journals of all: the ones belonging to Eachan Meritorious, Morwenna Crow, and Sagacious Tome.

When Rover and Dexter came back inside Anton had finished with the computer-room and was nearly done with the living-room. “Skulduggery and Stephanie are on their way,” Rover said, clutching Dexter’s phone. “They just left the Sanctuary. And spoke to Bliss, apparently, who isn’t as dead as the rumours said. He says the Sceptre was discovered on a dig and Gordon bought it.”

“Which means that it exists in some fashion,” Anton noted from where he was crouched by a case, picking books off the floor and replacing them on their shelves. Without a word Dexter moved in and started gathering loose sheaves of paper.

“We thought the key was to the caverns,” Rover said. “But if the Sceptre is down there …” He shrugged. “Ghastly’s on standby. I think he’s joining Erskine at Corrival’s until Skulduggery’s seen the house.”

“And then?”

Rover grinned, one of his mocking grins which hadn’t used to contain the edge of viciousness it did now. “And then Corrival goes to talk sense into the Elders while we say hello to an old friend. What are you looking for?”

“The Elder journals.” Anton rose and turned. “They’re gone.”

Dexter’s head snapped up. Rover blanched. “Oh. Well, shit.”

 

Skulduggery, Stephanie was finding impossible not to notice, was driving fast. Very, very fast. So fast that Stephanie kept shutting her eyes and then jolting them open the moment she felt the car swerve. Her fingers were starting to ache from clutching the door-handle. She didn’t dare ask Skulduggery to slow down. Last time she’d done that, he hadn’t responded at all. In fact she was halfway certain he’d sped up.

At least, she thought, she was wearing the new clothes Ghastly had made for her. The boots, the black pants and coat, the dark red tunic. She just hadn’t expected the chance to put them to the test quite so soon. Or as a result of the detective supposed to be protecting her.

With a screech of tyres Skulduggery turned onto the nearly-invisible track which led to Hopeless’s cottage. Stephanie hoped that the closeness of the trees meant he would slow down.

He didn’t.

Two of the three Elders hadn’t approved of her being involved with Skulduggery. The third, that Tome man the others had mentioned, had been distracted the whole time she had been there. He’d been pale and ill, and barely looked at her at all. Stephanie wished she were back there. She’d rather be underestimated and ignored than a smear on the wheel-ruts in a part of Ireland no one but the Dead Men knew existed.

It seemed like forever before the trees parted to reveal Hopeless’s clearing. The first and immediate change she noticed was the fact that there was now a building in the small meadow in front of where the bee-hives had been, opposite the cottage. The door was still hanging open.

Skulduggery pulled to a smooth and way-too-fast halt just by the new building, and by the time they were both out of the car the others were coming out of the house. Stephanie took a moment to lean on the Bentley and remind her knees to stop shaking; then she followed Skulduggery at a slower pace. Dexter was pale but set in expression, with a kind of nervous energy she’d never seen from him before. His fingers kept twitching, and she was suddenly reminded of Skulduggery’s description of Dexter’s energy-beam. Rover looked pale too, but calmer, with a weird sort of grin that somehow made his eyes look darker.  Anton Shudder didn’t look any different at all. But he was the first one out of the cottage.

“The Elder journals are gone,” he said without offering a greeting. Skulduggery didn’t respond, but his pace sped up as he moved toward the door.

“The Elder journals?” Stephanie asked, jogging to keep up with them as Anton turned and followed the detective. Anton glanced around at her. She was wrong, she realised. There was something weird about his eyes. They were so cold they made shivers run down her back and arms, and she shuddered when he looked away.

“Each of the Council of Elders write a journal to maintain the history of government,” he answered. “Usually no one but the Council can see them, but Meritorious asked Hopeless to digitalise them.”

Something clicked. “That’s what he was scanning the night we visited.”

“Very likely.”

They followed the others properly indoors. Glass crunched under their feet. It was only then that Stephanie realised the porch lantern had been smashed.

“Should we be in here?” she asked self-consciously. “I mean, isn’t it a crime-scene? Shouldn’t we be trying not to disturb it?”

“It’s already disturbed,” Rover said. “To say nothing of being disturb _ing_.”

“And we already know who did it,” Dexter added. “We just need clues as to where they took him.”

“Doesn’t he have magic? How did they do it?” Maybe he didn’t have battle magic like the others, but Skulduggery has said Hopeless knew everything. How had he not known this, if he knew everything?

“Go and look at the garden,” Skulduggery said. Stephanie didn’t know what she was expecting, but his voice was very calm, and not calm like Shudder. He could have been talking about the weather. With a frown Stephanie went to the door to look outside.

The garden looked awful. Before, it had been neat rows, every plant or vegetable in their own sections. Some of them were tall; the tomatoes had nearly come up to her shoulder. Now plants were broken and trampled, vines in disarray. The ground was stomped on, but there was something weird about the stomps. There were footprints, but they were almost twice the size of an ordinary man’s and very deep.

“It looks like elephants trampled it,” she said frankly when she came back in.

“Close,” Skulduggery said. “They were Hollow Men. They’re artificial beings Mevolent’s side used against the Cleavers. They’re made of gas-inflated paper, but their hands and feet are solid metal blocks.”

“Oh.” Stephanie looked outside again. She could see the description based on those footprints, but she didn’t get why it mattered. “So?”

“So they could have ambushed Hopeless easily,” Dexter said, glaring at the garden.

That still didn’t make any sense at all. “How?”

“It’s complicated.” Skulduggery was now moving slowly through the cottage, peering around. Every now and then he would stop and crouch to look at something on the floor.

“The Elders won’t believe there were hollow things here based on some footprints,” Stephanie pointed out.

“They won’t have to,” Skulduggery answered, and pointed at the kitchen wall. “Look.”

They looked. There was a weirdly-coloured patch on the stone. “It looks like a gas leak,” Rover said, and frowned. “But Descry doesn’t have gas. He only uses oil and wood-fires, unless he’s got the computer on, and then he only uses electricity for that.”

“Exactly,” Skulduggery said, and lifted something off the ground.

“Hollow Man skin,” Dexter said, looking a little sick, before Stephanie could ask.

“Hopeless punctured one of them,” Skulduggery said. “He probably impaled it to the wall, here.” He pointed at where a brick had been chipped. “It leaked gas and left this discolouration, but they took the skin with them.”

“He impaled it with this.” Anton came toward them, brandishing a fire-iron. It still had a shred of paper caught behind the prong. “He was taken by surprise, but he’s far from helpless.”

“But how?” Stephanie demanded in frustration. “You said that he knows everything. If he knows everything, how can he be taken by surprise?”

Skulduggery tilted his head at her. “I thought you didn’t like Hopeless. Are you saying you believed me when I said he knew everything?”

“You said it was his magic.”

“Which it is. But that’s not important right now.”

“Then what is?”

“Finding Descry,” Dexter said immediately.

“How?”

Dexter deflated. “I don’t know. Skulduggery? Have you found him? Or should we ring Saracen?”

“Let’s not ring Saracen yet,” Skulduggery said. “The most obvious place to hold Descry is Serpine’s castle.”

“But you don’t think he’s there,” Anton noted, and Skulduggery turned his eye-sockets to him.

“No, I don’t. Serpine can’t rely on the Elders refusing to mobilise. He knows that we won’t wait, regardless of orders. And we know where his castle is. Which means Descry is somewhere else.”

“You don’t think—” Rover cut himself off, glancing at Stephanie. She frowned at him.

“No,” said Skulduggery, apparently not needing Rover to finish his sentence. “Serpine is smarter than to use a place that’s already been used before.”

“But?” Rover prompted.

“But there might be evidence of where he’s really being held at the castle.”

“You’re just saying that because you want to punch some things,” Rover said, and then grinned a fierce grin that looked like he’d borrowed it from someone else. “I approve. Well, I’m in. How about you?”

“I’m in yesterday,” Dexter answered, and while he wasn’t smiling, there was an anticipation on his face that would have given Stephanie shivers if she hadn’t already seen Shudder’s expression. It was a slow, wolfish smile which made Stephanie realise where Rover had gotten his from.

“Must you ask?”

“No, but I thought it might be amusing. Come on, then.”

“What about the cottage?” Stephanie asked as they moved out.

“No one knows it’s here,” Skulduggery told her, and then added, “But just in case, we’ll lock the door.”

Which they did, while Rover ran into the Hotel to get a shirt and some shoes, and other things he needed, like his phone, and Anton locked the Hotel up after him. Then the three Dead Men took Hopeless’s truck while Stephanie climbed back into the Bentley beside Skulduggery.

“Are we going to Serpine’s castle now?” she asked. Her heart was pounding. She didn’t really like Hopeless and still wasn’t sure whether his not telling them what he knew meant he deserved to be captured by a bad guy or not. But the way Skulduggery and the others were reacting made her not want to object to going.

“No,” Skulduggery answered, turning on the car. “We’re going to Dublin to see Corrival Deuce.”

 

It turned out that Corrival Deuce didn’t live in Dublin, but in a mansion just outside it. Stephanie wondered how much money sorcerers had. They were always well-dressed, except for Rover and Hopeless, and that seemed to be more by choice than because they were poor. Corrival lived in a mansion while Anton owned a hotel. And Ghastly had whole rooms full of ancient magical artefacts.

Stephanie only let herself have a moment to look up at the house when they arrived. She thought it was just a _bit_ smaller than Gordon’s, but tasteful and with nice gardens. It made her think of what the others had said, about Gordon buying his mansion from Corrival.

Then she hurried to catch up to the Dead Men, who already walking in through the door.

The front hall had two staircases leading to the next storey, with the hall overlooking the entrance. Directly opposite were a pair of closed double-doors, and to either side were pairs of open ones. Erskine ran out from one of them when they came in, footsteps sounding loudly on the marble floor. Ghastly was just behind him.

“Well?” Erskine demanded. Last Stephanie had seen him, he had looked annoyed. Now he looked furious, and afraid, and sick with worry.

“We’re going on an evil-hunt,” Rover sang, “and we’re going to catch a big one. I’m not scared.”

In spite of everything, Stephanie laughed. Erskine blinked, his urgency suddenly arrested, and then grinned a very vicious but humourless grin. The Dead Men shared a lot of mannerisms, she was beginning to notice. Sometimes they tilted their heads like Skulduggery did. Sometimes she could see Rover in a wave of their hands. Right now, she couldn’t stop being struck by whose smile they wore when they were angry, and wondered why that was. Anton had seemed like the calmest one of them, except for Skulduggery himself. What was _his_ magic?

“And where does this hunt begin, exactly?” Ghastly asked with a slow smile of his own.

“Serpine’s castle, of course,” Dexter said. “I’ve heard it’s chock-full of things to hunt.”

“It’s also protected territory, in case you forgot,” someone else said. Someone Stephanie didn’t recognise. She looked toward the room Ghastly and Erskine had come from, and saw a man standing there. He was stocky and grey-haired, in a dressing-gown, holding a whiskey glass in his hand.

“We didn’t forget,” Erskine snapped. “But this is not going to happen again. I won’t let it.”

Again? Stephanie wondered, but the man in the doorway shook his head. “I didn’t say you should, Ravel.”

His voice was mild, almost gentle, and something in it made Erskine relax. Not much, but a little.

“Good,” said Anton, “because we don’t care.” He nodded at the man as he approached. “Corrival.”

“Shudder,” said Corrival Deuce. “It’s been a little while.”

“Three years. You wanted to take a year-long Hotel-hop around the world.”

“I did, didn’t I? Seem to remember getting lost somewhere in Mexico about four months in.” He turned to leave more room in the doorway. “Come on in, then. We’ve got a lot of things to talk about.”

“Not all that much, really,” Skulduggery disagreed, but he took off his hat while he followed. Stephanie followed them all. Corrival hadn’t really looked at her, but then, he hadn’t really looked at Dexter or Skulduggery either. So she didn’t draw attention to herself and when the others took seats all around the room, except for Skulduggery who stood by one of the armchairs, she quietly took a seat beside him.

Corrival was the only other one who didn’t sit. He stood by the hearth, which was huge and elaborately scrolled with carvings, and had a banked fire lit in it. One of the armchairs was facing it. There was a newspaper on the ottoman beside the chair. At least, it looked like a newspaper. There was something weird about the print on it.

“What’s going on then?” Corrival asked, leaning comfortably against the hearth.

“Hopeless has been taken by Serpine,” Skulduggery said. “We found Hollow Man skin at his cottage. From the looks of the fire he was attacked sometime early last night, after dark. He’s probably not at Serpine’s castle, but that’s the best place for us to start.”

“Even though Serpine’s a protected citizen,” Corrival pointed out. “Even though there’s a Truce on.”

“The Truce is broken.”

“Even though we, and the Elders, are the only ones who know where Hopeless lives.”

“Serpine is good at figuring things out.”

“Even though you haven’t reported this to the Elders for them to handle.”

“They’re not going to handle it fast enough.”

“And I suppose you’re wanting me to be the one to actually _tell_ Meritorious where you are and why.”

“They like you,” Erskine pointed out, his tone steely-edged, as if he was just keeping his impatience in check. “They think you’re adorably gruff. And they don’t look at you as an upstart minion.”

Corrival raised an eyebrow at him. Stephanie, frowning, opened her mouth to say something. Then Corrival shrugged. “Well, okay then. Got plans?”

“Got orders for us, oh Generalissimo?” Rover asked back with a grin.

“I’m not your general anymore,” Corrival grumbled. “You don’t need me to tell you how to storm a castle. Especially his.”

“But we do need you to show us the map,” Anton said. Corrival looked at him, grinned, and picked up the paper from the ottoman, shaking it out and laying it on the table in the middle of the room.

“All you had to do was ask.”

“You’ve been inside Serpine’s castle?” Stephanie blurted in surprise.

“I was on the envoy extending the offer of the Truce,” Corrival said as Skulduggery stepped forward to look at the map. “The only one prepared for a fight. The bastard was expecting us. Expecting us _not_ to fight.”

“Oh.”

“We probably won’t be going in the front entrance like you did,” Erskine pointed out.

“Good idea,” Corrival agreed. “Can’t help you figure out which one. I didn’t see much past the main halls.”

“How did you get the map?”

“My charm and good looks,” he said dryly, in a very different way than Erskine or Dexter would have. As if he found the idea of his having charm or good looks amusing. “But there’s another problem. The Elders are still set on this Truce holding. If you invade Serpine’s castle and find no proof that he’s broken it, he’ll cause a lot of trouble. He might even be able to get you detained by the Cleavers.”

“But Skulduggery’s a good guy,” Stephanie blurted out. Corrival looked at her and she flushed, but went on. “The Elders are meant to be good guys too. They fought against Serpine! They wouldn’t really go as far as arresting someone on their side if the other side asked it, would they?”

They’d been annoying and stubborn, but not stupid. Right?

“You’ve got a very medieval sense of justice,” Corrival observed. Stephanie scowled, but he continued before she could say anything. “I mean that in the best possible way. Modern law has fixed up a few flaws in the old system, but it’s caused its own problems. It revolves too much around written laws, and taken too far that’s when justice gets strangled. The problem with the Elders’ laws now is that they have to protect everybody covered under them—even the other side.”

Anton cleared his throat.

“Your way’s different, Shudder. You act when you should. The Council uses the law for an excuse to not.”

“That’s not the way it should be,” said Stephanie.

Corrival shrugged. “That’s what I mean by having a medieval sense of justice. Law today is about what’s written, not what’s done. But Meritorious has been opposing Mevolent for a long time, longer even than the war. He was on the landsmeet before Mevolent. They were at odds most of the time. When Mevolent came out with open war, Meritorious raised the rebellion. He’s tired of war. He wants to believe everyone else is too.”

Stephanie frowned a little. “You sound like you understand him.”

“I do,” Corrival said, looking directly into her eyes. “I’m retired and I like to stay retired. But there’s some causes, some old friends, I’ll stick my neck out for. Hopeless is Meritorious’s oldest friend. If there’s anyone that would get him to move fast, it’s Hopeless.”

“Which is why someone has to go and tell him,” Skulduggery said.

“We can live with being fugitives for a while,” Erskine agreed.

“Besides, we know a guy with a moving hotel who doesn’t cater to Sanctuary officials,” Rover said.

Stephanie’s heart turned over. _She_ didn’t. Did she even want to go into a fight to rescue a man she didn’t like? Not really, she decided. Not if it meant leaving her parents for who-knew-how-long. The reflection Skulduggery had her make this morning wouldn’t fool them for long.

But she didn’t want these men to think less of her, either. And there might be some evidence of Gordon’s key there. She took a deep breath. “So we go to Serpine’s castle and try to find evidence of where he’s taken Hopeless, and why he wants the Sceptre. Right?”

“ _They’re_ going to Serpine’s castle,” Corrival said, waving his hand at the others. “ _We’re_ going to see the Elders.”

“What?” The word came out before Stephanie could stop it. “I’m not staying behind.”

Skulduggery tilted his head at her. “I thought you don’t like Descry.”

“I don’t,” Stephanie said with a frown, “but he’s your friend and I’m not going to be left behind like a kid.”

“Newsflash.” Rover raised a finger. “You _are_ a kid.” She glared at him, but he just shrugged. “Well, you _are_. Just because you’re stupidly stubborn and courageous too doesn’t change that.”

Part of Stephanie calmed down at the backhanded compliment, but since the very last thing she wanted to be thought of was a little kid, she didn’t let up her glare.

“I’m not a little kid,” Corrival pointed out, “but I’m staying behind. And Hopeless _is_ a good friend of mine.”

The glare turned into more of a frown. “That’s different.”

“Yes, it is,” Corrival said, “because I have every right and reason to go.”

“I have every right and reason to go too,” Stephanie told him. “There might be proof that Serpine killed Gordon there. I have to go.”

“If there is, Skulduggery and the others will find it.”

She knew it. This had all been too good. Skulduggery and the others might have been willing to treat her like an adult, but now that they’d met their general, whatever it was he said about not giving orders anymore, he was making her stay behind just because she was young.

“I can take care of myself,” Stephanie said angrily, getting to her feet. She wasn’t sure if she was expecting Skulduggery to back her up or not, but when he didn’t, her chest tightened. “I have to go—for Gordon.”

“Why?” Corrival asked simply.

“Because Gordon is my uncle and I _owe_ him.” Why was he finding this so hard to understand? Why wasn’t Skulduggery or Dexter, or even Erskine, backing her up?

Corrival turned toward the other men. “Hands up everyone who considered Gordon a friend and-or owed him for something or other.” Six hands were raised. A moment later Corrival put his up too, and he turned back to Stephanie. “So, again, what makes you so special that you _have_ to go even though it makes no logical sense?”

“He’s my uncle!”

“You’re a target,” Corrival corrected. “Only fools and desperate men send targets straight into the territory of those targeting them. That’s reason number one. Number two is that I didn’t see Hopeless’s cottage and you did, and I haven’t seen the man who attacked you and you have, or seen inside Ghastly’s vault or heard what Hopeless had to say the first time. You’re a direct source of information which I need. Reason number three is that you know nothing about fighting.”

“I’m not—”

“This has nothing to do with you being a child,” Corrival cut in. “You have no experience in infiltration or surgical strikes, period. You’d be a liability. You’d be a liability if you were an adult. That’s three good reasons right there, which have nothing to do with your age, for you not to go. Any questions?”

Stephanie was red-faced, though she wasn’t sure if it was due to anger or humiliation. “You’re not my general,” she said. “I don’t have to do what you say.” It sounded almost feeble. She hated being told what to do when she had no good reason to obey. Corrival had given her three. But he had done it in front of people she really wanted to respect her, and she couldn’t take that lying down.

Corrival peered at her for a moment and then sighed. “You want to be treated like an adult, right?”

“Of course!”

“Then stop acting like a little girl thinking about her own ego,” he said, “and start acting like a woman thinking about the best thing for the team, the case and the man who needs rescuing.” He pushed himself off the mantle. “Give me a minute to get dressed.” The old sorcerer strode toward the door and Stephanie sank back into her chair, her face burning.

“Here.” Skulduggery pointed to the map as if he hadn’t heard the argument at all. “We should be able to get in over the wall just here.”

“That means we’d have to go in through the front door,” Erskine pointed out, coming nearer. “We’ll have a problem with Hollow Men.”

“We can’t trust any of the side entrances on the map, either,” Skulduggery said. “It’s centuries old. Serpine has probably changed things since the last time people were there.”

“He’s right,” Anton agreed, and indicated a specific part of the map. “The last time Rover and I tried to infiltrate, that entrance was already gone.”

Rover made a face. “Yeah, that wasn’t fun, walking into a solid wall where there was meant to be a tunnel.”

Stephanie sat quietly, letting their plans and dark-humoured arguments wash over her. It wasn’t childish to want to do what was right, she told herself. The problem was that she wasn’t sure what was right in this instance. She _did_ know how to take care of herself. Corrival was wrong about that. So she wasn’t a soldier. But she was smart and observant … most of the time.

The thing was, she wasn’t sure how to feel. Humiliated, yes. Angry about being humiliated, yes. But Corrival hadn’t dismissed her like a stupid kid, even though she didn’t like how he’d done it. And part of her didn’t want him thinking of her like a little kid being arrogant if she tried to talk Skulduggery into letting her come.

Stephanie glanced at the Dead Men, deep in earnest conversation, and got up to find Corrival. Maybe she could talk him into it if she got him alone. He was upstairs, in some sort of parlour, properly dressed and just sitting down to pick up an old leather boot. Stephanie hesitated, second-guessing herself at the door. When he spoke, suddenly, she jumped.

“I wore these all through the war,” he said, turning the boot over in his hands. “They saw a lot of mud, rain, blood, horseshit and a million other things. But it wasn’t often they saw a battlefield.”

Stephanie frowned. “I don’t get it.”

Corrival’s mouth tilted. “After the first leaders were killed we had to be more careful about where our generals went. I didn’t often go onto the battlefields until the battle was over and the clean-up had started. It’s not really a battlefield then. Just gory aftermath. They said I was too valuable to lose.” He looked up at her and for the first time Stephanie saw how old he really was. All his hair was grey, not just some. What was he? Six hundred? Seven? “Some people out there will try and sideline you because they think your being young is a bad thing. But others—a lot of others—will do it because they believe you’re too precious to risk.”

When he put it like that it didn’t sound so bad, except that Stephanie really didn’t like the idea of her being made of glass. “I don’t need protection.”

“Everyone needs protection,” Corrival said. “Needing protection and not being able to take care of yourself are two very different things.” For several moments they were silent as Corrival pulled on his boots, dropping his feet back to the floor with dull thuds. He was still looking down at them as he said, “I have another reason for you to stay behind.”

“What’s that?”

“You have family.” Corrival looked at her from under his brow. “All of us, the Dead Men—all we have is each other. Of course we’re going to do stupid things for one another. You have parents. Aunts. Uncles. You have people who will notice you’re missing and worry. Gordon’s dead. He’s got nothing to worry about, and I think he’d prefer you keep your focus on the people who care about you and are still living. Don’t be so quick to give up your family for a life of excitement. In a century, when they’re all dead and gone, if you’re any kind of decent person, you’ll find yourself wishing you hadn’t wasted that time.”

There was such a wistful note in his tone and his gaze, which seemed to look past her instead of at her, that Stephanie had to swallow. She dared to ask, “Who did you waste it with?”

“She wasn’t my wife,” he said softly, “but she was a woman I could have settled down with. Only I didn’t. By the time I went back, she was dead. Pneumonia. She had a son. I never found out if he was mine.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”

Somehow, Stephanie thought, that only made it worse, because Corrival was sitting here and still thinking about this woman however many hundreds of years later. And that was exactly what he was saying, wasn’t it? She could try and say that it wasn’t going to happen because she wouldn’t let it, but right now it seemed very silly and childish to try. Stephanie shivered. “Okay. I’ll go with you to the Sanctuary.”

Corrival simply nodded and got to his feet. “We’d better get going then, hadn’t we?”


	10. Behind the thoughts of a madman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for graphic torture.

Serpine released his magical grasp on Hopeless. Hopeless sank into his restraints, gasping for air, his body still gripped by violent twitches. This particular spell wasn’t the one Serpine had considered previously. He didn’t want Hopeless dead just yet, and it wasn’t like he could be repaired as easily as, say, a skeleton.

This spell was still painful, of course. As Serpine understood it, it was supposed to be some kind of healing technique to encourage rehabilitation in the nervous system of reattached limbs. Serpine, like with all his magics, had made it his own.

Idly he reached out again to touch Hopeless’s shoulder. The man bowed under the contact, a thin and ragged wail rising from him.

He was lasting rather better than Serpine had expected. Serpine had ordered some of his subordinates to go have fun with prisoners in the rooms nearby, reasoning that interspersing personal torture with second-hand torture might break the man more quickly. It certainly had its effect, but for some time now Hopeless had been less unnerved by what was happening beyond those walls, let alone to himself, than Serpine had been expecting. _Could_ he turn the ability off? It would explain the apathy toward the torture of innocents.

It would explain how he had managed to stay sane, after the last time.

Serpine lifted his hand. Hopeless slumped into his chair once more. “Tell me where the key is.”

To his surprise Hopeless led with a ragged but sardonic laugh. “Or you’ll _what_?”

He raised his head. There was something off about his face. He was sneering, for one, entirely unlike the good little servant he was. Serpine might have thought it was a pretence, except for the fact that his bearing had changed almost entirely now that he had the chance to sit up. And his eyes were darker, filled with a sort of cold which Serpine recalled seeing just that morning in his own mirror.

An unconscionable chill ran down his spine. “No,” he breathed. With a snarl he struck Hopeless across the face. “Who are you?!”

Hopeless’s head snapped to the side and he spat blood, and then lifted it. The way he tilted it to shake back his hair, the curl of his lip—it was all very familiar. “Having an identity crisis, Nefarian, my friend? Why don’t you take a seat in this chair and let _me_ have a bit of fun for a change?”

The mind-reading bastard was more powerful than Serpine had given him credit for. No wonder he didn’t seem affected by the torture. He was hiding behind the thoughts of the one person nearby who not only did not know the answer to the question but was very used to pain. Borrowing them to such a degree that he didn’t even seem to know that he was someone else.

Serpine seized Hopeless’s chin and forced him to look into his eyes. The expression on the man’s face was uncannily Serpine’s own. That would not do. He would _not_ have another man take his thoughts and wear them as if he owned them.

Methodically Serpine brought forward every memory of Hopeless as himself. He lingered over every image of Hopeless’s flinch when he was beaten, every gloriously bleeding cut from the blade, every ragged gasp and wracking scream. Serpine didn’t know which memory was the final straw, but Hopeless’ expression broke. There wasn’t much blood in his face, but the rest drained out of it. The man practically went green.

Satisfied there would be no more posing, Serpine released Hopeless’s chin. With a shuddering breath the mind-reader slumped, his throat working with silent gags. It was a beautiful sight. Particularly the tears.

“I admit,” Serpine said, “I am impressed, Descry. May I call you Descry? I realise it’s a name reserved for the Dead Men, but I feel we’ve become sufficiently close over the past few hours. You’re far more powerful than I thought, and given your previous run-in with my former master, I was expecting quite a bit. Quite an ingenious defence you have there. Of course, I imagine the aftermath isn’t much fun. Men who consider themselves good tend to find my thoughts somewhat objectionable.”

Hopeless didn’t answer. Serpine assumed it was because he was busy trying not to throw up. He certainly looked ill enough. Then again, that could have been the blood-loss. The black eye had swelled up beautifully and his face was caked with the blood of dozens of cuts, each perfectly positioned to cause the most discomfort. Serpine had done the same to his limbs and chest; his wrists were slashed, not enough to drain his blood but enough to make things painful. Death by a thousand cuts was an old technique, but there was a reason it was a classic.

Of course, this changed everything. Hopeless was willing to give up his sense of self in order to protect his secrets. Serpine would be able to break him, but not in a way which allowed him to know those secrets, and if that was the case the man was useless. Any other options would require more time than Serpine had.

He would simply have to ensure Hopeless would never be able to tell his precious Dead Men about what he’d read from Serpine’s mind, and then, of course, his final end promised to be quite entertaining.

Hopeless caught his breath with a choking cough, his body shuddering. Glorious. Serpine didn’t even have to lay a finger on him. He did anyway, gripping the man’s shoulder hard and leaning over him. “I’d savour these thoughts I’m giving you, Descry,” he said before straightening and moving toward the door. “They might be the last you’re given for some time.”


	11. A not so fabulous rescue

The last thing Stephanie had expected was to see the Sanctuary twice, let alone in the same day. Corrival had his own car, tiny and economic, at which Skulduggery made a sound remarkably like disdain. Unlike some people, Corrival had explained to Stephanie, he didn’t see any need to waste his money on road-hogs and vehicles which couldn’t fit in a dingy alley. When Stephanie asked why he would want a car that could fit into a dingy alley, the old man had only said, “Just covering all my bases.”

He didn’t say what those bases were—but he did lift an eyebrow at Erskine, who looked innocently away.

Reluctantly Stephanie decided she liked Corrival. He was gruff and blunt and seemed more invested in his retirement than anything that happened outside his house, but he took action when it counted.

The Waxworks Museum was nearly ready to close, so they hurried through the darkness, passing tourist groups. Corrival searched the back wall for the switch, found it and the wall parted. When Stephanie tried to move first down the stairs Corrival took her shoulder to hold her back, taking the lead instead. He told her, “You’re too young to make enemies by being the bastard who storms into places like you own them.”

“Even if they deserve it?”

He chuckled. “Maybe if they deserve it.”

The Administrator hurried up to them, frowning. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but you do not have an appointment.”

“I don’t need an appointment,” Corrival said. “Just tell Eachan that Corrival’s here.”

The Administrator hesitated. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said respectfully yet firmly, “but the Elders cannot be disturbed. I must ask you to leave at once.”

“I’m not asking to see the Elders. Just Eachan. And since when has the Sanctuary been barred to visitors?”

“It isn’t barred,” insisted the Administrator.

“Then why do we have to leave? Maybe we want to take a tour. Do you want to take a tour, lass?”

Stephanie opened her mouth to say that she’d already had a tour, but Corrival shot her a look and she realised what he was up to. “Sure. I could do with another one.”

The Administrator frowned. “The Sanctuary is not an entertainment centre,” he said sharply. “Unless you have good reason for being here—”

“We do,” Corrival pointed out, “but you keep telling us it’s not good enough. So either let us wander around until the Elders become disengaged, or tell Eachan that Corrival’s here to see him about Hopeless’s abduction.”

Since they had met just that morning Stephanie thought the Administrator was focussed on things like rules and his job without leaving much in the way of things like people, but at Corrival’s words he visibly paled.

“Hopeless is missing?”

Stephanie resisted the urge to throw up her hands. “Does _everyone_ know him?”

“He’s the Grand Mage’s oldest friend,” Corrival reminded her. “Why _wouldn’t_ people know him?”

“Good point.”

“Please come with me.” The Administrator led them into the same waiting-room Stephanie had seen only earlier that day and then hurried off. Presently they heard footsteps approaching, and so quickly that Stephanie was surprised. Eachan Meritorious all but burst into the room, his gaze landing on Corrival.

“Hopeless?” he asked. Stephanie was startled to see real fear on his face.

“Gone,” Corrival said. “My companion here saw his cottage. Tell us, lass.”

“It’s Serpine,” she said, and quickly described the state of Hopeless’s yard, cottage and the pieces of skin Skulduggery and Anton had found on the floor. For a long moment after she finished there was silence. Meritorious’s eyes had closed and he shook his head slowly, mouthing something Stephanie couldn’t understand. Finally Stephanie said, “Do you believe me?”

Meritorious looked at her. She couldn’t tell what was in his expression, but some of it looked like defeat and some of it looked like shame. He opened his mouth and began, “When it comes to Nefarian Serpine, the Dead Men—” He stopped suddenly, took a breath, and tried again. “Hopeless has always been against the Truce,” he said. “He’s always said Nefarian couldn’t be trusted to uphold it.”

“I always wondered why you ignored his opinion,” Corrival said. “Then, of all times.”

For a moment Meritorious didn’t answer. He didn’t even seem to be looking at Stephanie anymore, but past her. “You don’t know what he’s been through,” he said finally. “What he’s seen during the war.”

That made Corrival frown. It was almost a scowl, but Stephanie had the impression he liked Meritorious, respected Meritorious, and didn’t want to scowl at him. “You must be joking,” he said. “You may have known him for longer, but you weren’t there in the aftermath of the last time. I worked more closely with Hopeless than you did for a century. You know the others had him on watch nearly every night, right?”

“Last time?” Stephanie asked. “What happened last time?” Both men ignored her.

Meritorious looked at him at last. “I did know that, Corrival.”

“Then how can you say I don’t know?” Corrival demanded. “He was one of _my_ men.”

“I don’t know what he’s seen either,” Meritorious said heavily. “None of us can. We couldn’t even begin to imagine the kinds of things he must have endured. The Truce …” He trailed off and there was a moment of silence in which Corrival’s expression shifted.

“You can’t protect him by trusting a madman,” he said with an odd note of gentleness. “Especially when Hopeless is the one who says it’s foolishness.” For a moment Meritorious said nothing. Stephanie might have tried to speak up, but something in the way he was staring into space, something in the way Corrival’s patient regard turned into narrow-eyed thought, kept her quiet. “Except it wasn’t just about that, was it? When did you stop trusting him, Eachan?”

“I didn’t,” Meritorious said softly. “He’s been my greatest friend for a very long time. But I … feared for him. For his state of mind. For his sanity.”

“You thought he was hearing things,” Corrival accused. “You didn’t believe him about Serpine because you wanted him to be wrong, and you rationalised it by calling him insane? My God.” He shook his head. “Please tell me you didn’t tell him this to his face.”

He didn’t sound like he had much hope that Meritorious hadn’t, and the way Meritorious didn’t answer said everything. “Dammit, Eachan! Everyone who was there knew that war was hell, but to actually choose the enemy over your best friend and call him crazy on top of that—” Corrival massaged the bridge of his nose. “Put this right, Eachan. The Dead Men have gone to raid Serpine’s castle. They might come back with something but they’ll probably come back with nothing, and if they do Serpine’s going to claim victimisation. Put this right by not pandering to the enemy anymore.”

“On whose authority?” Meritorious asked. “On the word of a girl I barely know and the group of men most biased against the man whom we need for the peace to hold? I _promised_ peace to the people, Corrival. I promised _Hopeless_ peace. He’s earned it.”

“I know that,” Corrival said on the heels of the Grand Mage’s words, his voice tightly controlled but gentle too. “Do it on the word of the man you’ve trusted since you were just a peasant with visions of grandeur.”

Meritorious looked at him for so long that Stephanie thought he was going to tell them to leave. Then, finally, he asked, “My old friend. What do you advise I do?”

“Call the other Elders,” Corrival said evenly. “We have to talk about a war.”

 

The sound of The Corrs’ _Irresistible_ rang through the dead silence which came in the aftermath of a battle. Stone was still settling, parts of the ceiling deciding just where on the ruined walls to fall, and the air was choked with dust. Erskine looked at his suit, sighed, and took out his phone. “Corrival. Tell me good things.”

“Seriously?” Dexter demanded, turning around and brushing off his suit. He’d just finished conjuring a pillar for the roof to keep it from falling on top of them. “You won’t accept anyone making innuendos about the two of you behind your back, but you’ll accept it from your phone?”

Erskine waved a hand at him irritably, with an edge of impatient urgency. In any other circumstance, almost any other mission, and Erskine would be as light-hearted as any of them. But not this kind. Not when one of them had been taken. Erskine, of all of them, had reason to take their capture seriously.

Dexter turned to scan the room. There wasn’t, he had to admit, much left in the way of a ‘room’. Mostly it was now ‘rubble’. The ceiling had tried to fall through and the passage above was now partly below, but hey. There were no more Hollow Men in this section of the castle, and neither was there Hopeless. They’d reached the end of their area to explore, leaving a trail of fallen roofs in their wake. And that was the problem: no Hopeless.

Dexter rang Rover. Rover picked up almost at once, and in the background Dexter heard a very familiar shriek, tearing paper, and what sounded like giants farting. “Made it out of the entrance hall yet?”

“Just about,” Rover answered, his voice raised over the tumult. “You’ll have a clear escape route, at least. What about—hey!” His voice rose to a shout, away from the phone. “Anton, don’t eat tha—oh, shit. Uh, hang tight.”

His words were almost lost amidst the static produced by a thousand tons of stone splitting and falling in. Dexter yelped Rover’s name to no effect, running a hand through his hair until the rumble—which he could feel from down _here_ , Lugh’s ass—had settled into groaning debris.

“Rover?” he asked again, glancing up at the straining ceiling. It quivered, but his pillar held. Erskine also looked anxiously upward, but when nothing came caving in he gave Dexter a thumbs-up and returned to his call.

It took a moment, but Rover did answer. He was coughing. “I take it back. You’ll have to find your own way out. Anton brought down the house.”

“Is he okay?”

“Hey, Anton? You okay?” There came a groan. Rover came back on the line, sounding breathless. “Yeah, he’s fine. Sorta. Well, he’s moving. Kind of. When I’ve got him slung over my shoulder.”

“We’re coming up. We’re done down here anyway, and I’m pretty sure an extra thousand tons of stone on top of the dungeons is making the dungeons complain.” As well as his pillar. He eyed it. It was flaking at the top already and those flakes were fizzling into nothing at all. It would last four minutes, tops.

“Er, yeah, about that. Your exit is kind of buried under that thousand tons of stone.”

“So we’ll find another one. There were some on the map.”

“Like that one where Anton and I ran into a wall instead of down a tunnel?”

Dexter paused in the middle of lifting a hand to tug on Erskine’s sleeve. “Oh. Right. Well. We’re in a spot of trouble then, aren’t we?”

“We are?” Erskine asked, half-distracted and eyebrows shooting up.

“Anton’s dropped a castle on us and there’s no exit,” Dexter told him.

Erskine pointed at his phone. “Where’s the reception coming from?”

Dexter paused. “Did the castle have a radio tower?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“So either Serpine really, really wanted phone reception in his dungeons or there’s an exit.”

“I’m going to go with an exit,” Erskine said, and snapped his phone shut. “Corrival’s gotten Meritorious on side. They’re working on Crow now, but Tome hasn’t answered their call yet.”

“Oh, good,” Larrikin said, his voice strained, probably from lugging Anton’s dead weight. “By the time we get out of here maybe they’ll have actually come to a consensus.”

“So long as we all _get_ out of here,” Erskine pointed out, speaking directly into Dex’s phone. “So don’t get your heads knocked off by Hollow Men. Or get crushed by falling ceilings. Or suffocated by being trapped under a thousand tons of rock without exit.”

“I’ll do my best,” Rover promised, “but if Anton doesn’t up his game we might have a problem.”

Dexter sighed. “Erskine and Dex, sorcerers debonair, to the rescue once more. Have you heard from Ghastly and Skulduggery yet?”

“Sure,” Rover assured them. “Of course, that was _before_ Anton brought down the house.”

There was a moment of silence in which Erskine and Dexter looked at each other. There came a very ominous groan from overhead. Then, nearly as one, they turned and raced down the corridor, Erskine leading with his hand outstretched to read the tumbling air-currents. Behind them Dexter’s conjured pillar flaked and crumbled from the top down, fizzling out of existence with a subsequent boom of falling stone.

Several storeys above, Ghastly waited until the floor had properly decided it wasn’t going to move anymore before daring to step two feet down from his doorway and into the passage.

“Skulduggery?” he called, coughing in the dust. A gentle but well-placed gust of air cleared the area somewhat, but even then Ghastly could sense the weight of the castle bearing in. He glanced up and winced. The ceiling was less than a foot over his head.

He heard a grunt. “Present. I don’t suppose you’ve seen my foot?”

“Um.” Ghastly looked around. The passage down behind him was blocked off. When he turned to the other side he saw a thin figure leaning on the wall and hopping up the incline toward him. “Need a hand?”

“I’d rather the aforementioned foot,” Skulduggery said, leaning against the wall and holding his leg gingerly. Ghastly could see the white ankle-bone just under the hem of his trousers. “My sock and shoe would be nice too. Ah, there they are.”

He pointed. Ghastly turned and saw the dusty but intact toe of the shoe he’d made Skulduggery half-hidden under some rocks. He bent and carefully eased the stones off. The wall groaned; he stopped short, eyeing the ceiling. It settled again and he rescued the shoe, sock _and_ Skulduggery’s foot from the rubble. They were all a little battered, and Ghastly brushed them off before handing them over. Skulduggery accepted them with a nod, reaching down to slot them into place with a snap and a yelp of pain.

“Is the way down there clear?” Ghastly asked, glancing back at the unexplored and blocked passageway and glad Skulduggery was usually right about things like where the bad guys held their hostages.

“That really depends on your definition of the word ‘clear’,” Skulduggery said, straightening up, brushing off his suit and adjusting his hat. “We have ten feet of corridor and then the choice of a door or a window.”

“Doors are for people with no imagination,” Ghastly murmured with a smile, moving down the hall.

“True. But this door opens up into empty space, which makes it a mite more exciting.”

Ghastly paused. “I don’t suppose the window now looks out onto a corridor?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Skulduggery replied. “Serpine’s castle has a disappointing lack of equilibrium.”

“Well, a door which opens into nothing is even more imaginative than a window,” Ghastly said, resuming his way down the corridor, “so that has my vote.” The door, as it turned out, was less _door_ and more door _way_. Ghastly stopped in the gap, looking down at the jumbled ruin of what had once been a perfectly serviceable stone room. Then he looked up at the sky peeking between the huge cut stones which had made the ceiling and wall. And then he looked, finally, at the opening on the other side which his mental map told him they hadn’t explored yet.

“Across?” he asked.

“Across,” Skulduggery agreed, and Ghastly backed up one step before taking a short running leap, pushing down on the air behind him with flat palms. He sailed easily across the distance, about ten feet, and landed in the narrow crack. A moment later, hardly before there was room for anyone else, Skulduggery appeared behind him. The detective gripped his shoulders with a grunt. Ghastly felt him teetering on the edge of the precipice, held up only by Ghastly’s bulk to cling to. “Are we entering the passage or not?”

“I might have some trouble with that,” Ghastly admitted, eyeing the crevasse which, now he was closer, looked much narrower than it had from a distance. Skulduggery peered over his shoulder.

“Ah. You know, Erskine might have a point when he says you need to lose weight.”

“I do not need to lose weight,” Ghastly grumbled, turning sideways and sidling through the gap. His back and chest scraped the stone. “It’s muscle. I’m a boxer. Boxers need weight.”

“You’re a tailor too,” Skulduggery pointed out, following him closely. “Tailors don’t need weight.”

“But they do occasionally find muscle useful.”

In the end it took a bit of shoving and Ghastly lost some skin under his shirt, but they made it through without wasting too much time or having more of the castle collapse on them. “Which way?” Ghastly asked, brushing himself off. “We’re not even looking for Hopeless anymore, are we?”

“We never were. This way.” Without explanation Skulduggery started down the hall. Ghastly followed.

“But you are still hoping to find Serpine.”

“As Dexter pointed out, I feel like punching something.”

“There’s always the wall, in a pinch.”

“The wall wouldn’t make a satisfying squishing sound.”

“It would, if it was a very soft wall.”

They moved with swift efficiency down the hall, opening doors and peering into rooms where they could, aware of the weight of the half-ceiling above them. Ghastly’s phone buzzed with _Beauty and the Beast_. He answered it, ducking his head through a doorway to scan the empty room behind. “Hello, Erskine.”

“You’re alive,” Erskine’s voice came through patchy with static, sounding too relieved and too tense to really be joking. He tried, anyway. “See, Dex, I told you Ghastly was alive.”

Very distant, Ghastly heard Dexter’s response. “How about Skulduggery?”

“Of course he’s not alive. Where have you been for the last two centuries?”

“He’s here,” Ghastly said, suppressing a smile. “Not alive, but very much active, capable, and talking.”

“Oh, well, as long as he’s _talking_ ,” Erskine said.

“Should we start calling you Hamlet, Ghastly?” Dexter put in from a distance.

“If you do I shall have to take action,” Skulduggery said loudly enough to be heard over the phone.

“How ever do you plan to do that, Dead Man?”

“I’m not sure. Perhaps a soliloquy.”

“What, another one?” Dexter complained. “You’ve already given us two in the last century. It might get just a touch stiring.”

“You’ll just have to stop quoting Shakespeare, then, won’t you? Find anything downstairs?”

“A thousand tons of rock,” Erskine said, “and a lot of empty dungeons. Then Anton killed the wrong thing and everything came tumbling down. Did you notice?”

Ghastly glanced at the uneven ceiling, the broken walls, the doors leading into empty space. “Just a little.”

“Are we heading to the fall-back point?” Dexter asked. “Rover’s already dragged Anton out. We’re on our way as soon as we find the hole where the reception’s coming through.”

“Not yet,” Skulduggery answered before Ghastly could. The tailor narrowed his eyes at him. Judging by the brief silence on the other end, Erskine and Dexter were doing the same in absentia.

“Skulduggery, what are you looking for? Serpine won’t be keeping Hopeless here. He’s too valuable.”

“That’s true.”

“Then why?” Erskine demanded. “You’ve got a reason. You always do. So what is it this time? Why are you wasting time?”

“I’m looking for the Elder Journals,” Skulduggery said simply. There was another pause on the other end of the phone, but that was okay, because Ghastly was staring too.

“Skulduggery,” he said carefully, “if Hopeless isn’t here, why would Serpine leave the Elder Journals here instead? They’re both equally valuable.”

“ _Not_ true,” Skulduggery disagreed. “Descry is far more valuable. The Journals are just words written by Elders. Descry’s been inside their minds.”

“Descry would let himself go insane before he told Serpine anything,” Dexter said tersely.

“He would,” Skulduggery admitted, “and Serpine probably knows that by now.”

“Then Serpine’s better off with the journals,” Ghastly said.

“Which he will have electronically. Descry had nearly finished scanning them the other night. Even if he wasn’t done, Serpine has had ample opportunity to do so himself. He doesn’t need the physical books anymore. If you didn’t find them downstairs, then they must be up here.”

“But _why_?” Dexter demanded.

“Because,” Skulduggery said, “he’s telling us he doesn’t care about the Elders knowing he’s not interested in the Truce holding. He’s taunting us. Serpine enjoys that. The Journals are just second-rate recordings. He has the key. He has Descry. And now he has Descry’s scans.”

For several long moments there was dead silence. In spite of the finality of those words Ghastly and Skulduggery had kept moving, ducking heads into doors to check them before continuing. The further they progressed, the less damage there was. Then, finally, Erskine spoke. “The castle won’t last much longer. Where are you?”

“Don’t come up to help,” Skulduggery ordered. “We’re in the more protected parts of the castle, where Serpine would have had his offices and living quarters.”

That did explain the ruined floor-runners and broken furniture just down the hall, Ghastly thought, glancing down at glass shattered on the stone floor. “We’d better get moving.”

“Skulduggery—”

“No, Erskine. We already knew Hopeless wouldn’t be here. You should go rendezvous with Rover and Anton, and go back to the Sanctuary. Let us waste the time. You go and start figuring out where Serpine is holding him.”

Erskine exhaled audibly through the phone, a long exhale filled with attempted control. “Okay. Fine. Just … don’t get killed. Again, I mean.”

“Ghastly can’t get killed again,” Skulduggery pointed out. “He has to die at least once before he dies _again_.”

“It’s a good thing I’m talking to you, then, isn’t it? Ghastly isn’t idiotic enough to get killed.”

The phone clicked off before Skulduggery could answer. Ghastly put it away, grinning smugly at Skulduggery and ignoring the skeleton’s muttered, “Oh, that’s rich coming from you.”

With renewed urgency and determination the pair resumed their search. Anton and Rover’s distraction had worked perfectly; Ghastly wouldn’t have been surprised if every last Hollow Man had been crushed. They certainly weren’t going to bother with the parts of the castle blocked by ruin.

In near-silence the two Dead Men moved, each taking one side of the hall, until finally Ghastly opened the door into a library. It had been slightly affected by the collapse. The room was intact, but a couple of cases had fallen and books had tumbled out of shelves. Not all of them were the paperbound kind—at least half, if not more, were scrolls. Old scrolls, maps and works. Ghastly doubted they were anything truly important, anything Serpine couldn’t live to part with, but he wasn’t particularly interested in them either.

He was interested in the three leatherbound books sitting askew on the table in the centre of the room.

“Skulduggery!” he shouted, and moved forward, reading the air to make sure there were no booby-traps. He felt Skulduggery’s presence behind him a moment later, and they circled the table, testing for traps.

There were none.

“He may as well have left us a card,” Skulduggery mused, stepping forward to rest his hand on one of the books—Morwenna Crow’s.

“He really did want us to have them.” Ghastly shook his head. “You know what this means.”

“Oh, yes. Serpine has just officially declared war on the Sanctuary.”


	12. Collaborators old and new

Stephanie stared at the books on the table-top. The air in the room was very heavy. When she looked around she didn’t see anything close to laughter on anyone’s faces, so she didn’t look around.

Meritorious had his face in his hands. Morwenna Crow stood behind his chair, one hand on his shoulder. Her face was impassive, and if not for the way her mouth was drawn to a tight line Stephanie might have thought she didn’t care what was happening. Corrival was standing behind another empty chair to their side, but he gripped the back of it as though he was using it to hold himself up.

While the Elders and Corrival discussed Serpine’s potential betrayal Stephanie had found she didn’t have much to do. It was Morwenna Crow who suggested she go to the Sanctuary library. She had gotten lost, but been found by some kind of English visitor—a young woman with blonde hair and a sword—who, despite the fact she had looked busy preparing for something, showed her where some of the earliest use-of-magic books were.

One of those books was lying forgotten on the end of the table.

They were back, the Dead Men, dusty and a little cut up. Anton Shudder looked the worst. Stephanie hadn’t been able to stop staring. He wasn’t hurt, but he was pale and exhausted. He’d been shaking just like his name, and needed Rover’s support just to get into the room before he’d collapsed into the chair Corrival silently offered. Stephanie wasn’t sure he was even awake anymore. He looked like he’d taken on all the Hollow Men by himself. Rover had stationed himself on a chair beside him, and Dexter beside _him_. Skulduggery and Ghastly were standing on his other side, while Erskine was pacing by the wall, behind them all.

Now there was silence, aside from Erskine’s footsteps. Very heavy silence, so much that Stephanie wanted to break it, but didn’t know how.

She had to. She didn’t know as much as the others. Skulduggery had just finished describing how they found the Journals and Morwenna Crow had left momentarily to send a crew to the castle to do a more thorough search, but Stephanie still didn’t understand why Serpine just leave something like this behind. “Doesn’t he need the Journals? I thought no one was even allowed to look at them without permission. They’re important.”

She tried to sound strong. Her voice came out weak and uncertain, but it made the others stir. Skulduggery tilted his head at her. “They are. And I suspect Serpine intended to use them. Then he discovered he couldn’t.”

“Because they’re enchanted?”

“Open one of them.”

Stephanie hesitated, glancing at Meritorious and Crow. Meritorious didn’t respond, but Crow gave her a nod, so Stephanie went to the nearest book—Tome’s—and tried to lift the cover. It didn’t move. It wasn’t as if it was locked; it was just as if it was carved from stone. There was no give at all. “I can’t.”

“Nor could I, when we found them,” Skulduggery said.

“No one can,” Meritorious said, his voice very quiet and much more controlled than Stephanie expected. “Only the Elders can open and write in the Journals, unless a person is given special dispensation. Hopeless had it. He used to be a scribe, a very long time ago.”

Stephanie frowned. “Then why were you making electronic copies?”

She realised a moment later how accusing that sounded, and flushed. But Meritorious lifted his head and actually smiled at her, or tried to. “There would have been similar locks on those, once they were finished.”

“So Serpine couldn’t use them,” Stephanie said, “and he has Hopeless and the computer versions, so it doesn’t matter anyway.”

Skulduggery stirred. “It doesn’t matter,” he said slowly. Stephanie stared at him. So did everyone else, even Shudder, whose eyes were sunken with tiredness.

“I just said that,” she said, aware of the sudden hope in the Dead Men’s eyes that she didn’t get.

“Serpine didn’t keep the journals because he can’t use them.”

“Skulduggery,” Corrival said warningly, his grip on the chair so tight that his knuckles were white. Skulduggery looked at him.

“Descry is the one person other than the Elders who can write in the journals. He knew Serpine’s responsible for Gordon’s death. He knew Serpine’s after the Sceptre. He’s oath-bound not to _tell_ anyone—”

In a sudden movement that made Stephanie jump, it was so abrupt and quick for an old man, Meritorious yanked the nearest Journal closer and threw it open from the back.

“—but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t _write_ it,” Skulduggery finished. “I imagine he swore not to volunteer information, but if someone just happened to come across it …”

“Stop talking,” Erskine told him, moving to see the pages Meritorious was flipping through.

“Is that the right Journal?” Dexter asked.

“It’s mine,” Meritorious said shortly. “Hopeless has scribed for me before, under various circumstances. If there is any Journal in which his writing would arouse no suspicion, it’s this one.” He stopped and looked down at the Journal, his hands resting on its pages, his face expressionless. “Here. Right here.”

It was a bit like someone had thrown a rock into a flock of pigeons. All at once everyone was crowded around Meritorious. Stephanie found herself squashed up against the table with Rover behind her, peering over her shoulder. “I can’t read it,” she said with a scowl.

“The Elder Journals are always written in Irish,” Crow said.

“Why?”

The woman looked at her. Stephanie couldn’t tell what she was thinking. “So that, in the event the Elders of other Sanctuaries figure out a way past our spellwork, only one of our nation can read them.”

“Oh. What does it say?”

It had to be something good. Rover was laughing. Corrival was shaking his head with an exasperated smile. Erskine was rolling his eyes, but some of the tension had left his shoulders.

Skulduggery cleared his throat. “It says: ‘If you’re reading this, it means I’m dead. Actually, probably not, but I may be wishing I’m dead. Anton can tell you how that feels. It isn’t fun.’ Is that true, Anton?”

“Very near to true,” Anton agreed with a hint of a smile.

“Only _near_ to true?” Rover asked. “I always knew you were a masochist. I think I have to plumb these new depths of yours.”

“I think I’ll have to get jealous,” Dexter shot back. Stephanie was grinning and wouldn’t have cared if they’d kept going just to ease the tension, but Meritorious picked up the thread of Skulduggery’s recitation.

“‘First things first: It’s Serpine. Tome and I have been searching for solid evidence that he intends to break the Truce for over a year now. Serpine offered him a deal—power if he betrayed the other Elders.”’

There was a very pregnant pause. Rover looked around. “Tome isn’t here.”

“Sagacious never answered the call,” Crow said quietly.

“Didn’t he tell anyone about this?” Stephanie asked, and it was Erskine who shook his head.

“Not a word. Neither of them. Hopeless would have if he could, so Tome must have insisted.”

“Why would he do that?”

Meritorious looked very old and tired. “I am afraid he might have needed to prove something. To himself, if not to others. He was captured and tortured by Mevolent during the war.”

Stephanie frowned. “Then why would Serpine think he’d _help_ him?”

“Because it broke him,” Meritorious said simply. A movement at the corner of her eye made Stephanie look up. She saw Erskine turn around, running his hands up to his elbows and then back down to his wrists, rubbing them as if they hurt. Silently Rover put a hand on his shoulder. Meritorious continued, apparently unaware. “He wasn’t tortured for a reason. It was just for enjoyment. If there had been a purpose behind it perhaps Sagacious could have recovered better than he did, but there wasn’t. Ever since then Sagacious has felt … inferior. It’s why he was taking therapy with Hopeless. I can well imagine his needing to prove that he can still handle things without needing the benefit of our authority.”

Stephanie tore gaze away from the Dead Men. “But he didn’t,” she pointed out. “Tome’s missing and Hopeless has been captured. What now?”

Meritorious looked at her sidelong, and she thought there might just have been a smile somewhere on his face. A very small one. “Perhaps we should finish reading what Hopeless has to say, hm?”

“‘He’s after the Sceptre,’” Corrival read. “‘Yes, it’s real. Set aside your rampant scepticism for a moment and trust me. What we haven’t been able to find out is why. There’s an ulterior motive he hasn’t told Tome. I suspect he suspects it’s a front. Which is why, if you’re reading this, I’m either being horribly tortured or I’m dead. I told Tome that if he needed proof he was on Serpine’s side, he should give me up.’”

“That—” Erskine bit off the word as he whirled around to them, struggling for things to say, and then finished explosively, “that _idiot_!” Stephanie jumped.

“Something went wrong,” said Crow. “If Sagacious had managed to convince Serpine he had truly turned, he would have answered our call. Maintaining his cover with us would have been more important than Serpine asserting his mastery.”

“He wouldn’t put something like this in his Journal, would he?” Dexter demanded.

“No,” Skulduggery answered. “He should know better. But if Serpine thought he could use the Journals to achieve the same goal as he would have with Tome, it wouldn’t matter if he thought Tome was on his side. If he gets the Sceptre he won’t need Tome to lure the Elders into a trap.” He stopped then, his head turned just so in a way that Stephanie thought looked remarkably like a frown. “So why _does_ he need Tome?”

“To take over the Sanctuary,” Erskine snapped in a tone that said he thought Skulduggery needed to be chained down in the same point in the conversation at which the rest of them were currently stuck.

“Then why does he need the Sceptre?”

There was a pause. “It does seem like overkill,” Ghastly said slowly. “If he has Tome on side to betray the Sanctuary, why would he need the Sceptre to take it over?”

“Hence Descry’s suspicion of an ulterior motive,” Skulduggery agreed. “Yet as far as we know, Serpine is still pursuing both courses of action. At some point, they will have to become linked.” He lifted his hat to settle it on his head. “And the best place to try and discover that would be Tome’s house.”

“We’ve sent someone to Tome’s house,” Crow said. Skulduggery paused to turn his faceless gaze to her.

“Have I become superfluous?” he asked. “Have you been hiring detectives behind my back?”

Morwenna raised an eyebrow at him. “ _You_ were too busy gallivanting off and destroying historical landmarks in the name of your missing friend.”

“I rescued the Elder Journals. I think that should count for something.”

Stephanie wasn’t certain, but she was relatively sure the way Crow’s mouth compressed was to hide a smile. “If you hurry, you might be able to catch up with her before she disturbs anything you’d object to. Her name is Tanith Low. Bliss hired her to help with the Serpine situation.”

“Ah, Tanith!” Dexter said with a broad smile, yanking his coat off the back of Anton’s chair and shrugging it on. “It’s been a while since I saw Tanith. I think we should go. In fact, I think we should hurry.”

“Wait,” Anton said. “Did Descry have anything else to say?”

It was Rover who answered, with a broad grin on his face and in an oddly nasally voice. “‘Tally-ho.’”

Stephanie was glad to see, upon looking at Meritorious and Crow, that she wasn’t the only one baffled by the way the Dead Men broke abruptly into laughter, even strained as it was.

 

On the way to Tome’s house Dexter called the mysterious Saracen Rue, but hadn’t gotten an answer. Hopefully that meant he was already on a plane and on his way back, but Dexter had still left a message for Saracen to give them a call. Australia was a long way away. Maybe it had taken longer than the Dead Men thought it would to contact him about Gordon.

Tome’s house was a small building in a nice part of Dublin. Stephanie had never been to this part before, and was impressed with how normal it seemed. “I thought sorcerers lived in rundown areas.”

Erskine snorted, closing the door to the truck. “Only from people too afraid to pay attention in the first place.”

“If they’re fairly normal-seeming, they can pass well as mortals,” Skulduggery answered, stepping around the Sanctuary van with hardly a glance. Not that Stephanie really would have been able to tell, because he was wearing his disguise again. “Teleporters are among the most normal. There’s no need for them to cover for moving pictures or purple fires, or cats that talk back.”

“Do most sorcerers have to cover for moving pictures or purple fires, or cats that talk back?”

“Of course not, Stephanie. This isn’t Harry Potter.”

Stephanie stared. “ _You_ read Harry Potter?”

“Actually, I did,” Dexter said, hopping up the curb with Ghastly and Erskine behind him. Rover and Anton had elected to remain at the Sanctuary under the reasoning that neither of them were detectives and Anton had done his bit for the day anyway. “I even read them to all the others, too.”

“For a biography, it wasn’t very historically accurate,” Skulduggery observed.

“It wasn’t a biography,” Stephanie said with a frown.

“Wasn’t it? Fancy that.”

Stephanie hit him as they walked up the garden path to the door. Before they had reached it the door opened and revealed the very same Englishwoman who had directed Stephanie toward the library. Dexter, in the lead, spread his arms. “Tanith! Long time no see!”

Stephanie was fairly sure Tanith was restraining a smile, but the woman only nodded perfunctorily at Dexter. “Good to see you again.”

Dexter’s hands wilted. “What? That’s it? ‘Good to you again, Dex’? Not even so much as a hug? Why, we were practically bosom buddies!”

“In your dreams,” Tanith said, but this time she did smile.

“Of course. Where else?” Dexter grinned and stepped forward to wrap her in a hug anyway. Then he turned, one arm still around her shoulders, to the others. “Everybody, Tanith. Tanith, this is Everybody.”

“Hello, Everybody,” Tanith said promptly, and winked at Stephanie. “I recognise you from your picture.”

“Everybody’s very memorable,” Dexter agreed. “More specifically, these are Skulduggery Pleasant, Ghastly Bespoke, Erskine Ravel and She-Who-Has-Not-Been-Named.” As he spoke he pointed at them, landing finally on Stephanie. “We could suggest a few, but she doesn’t seem to trust we’ll come up with anything she’d like.”

“I’m still thinking,” Stephanie muttered. And she was. It felt a bit like she already knew what her Taken name should be, but it was lurking just out of reach.

“It’ll come,” Tanith said. “Don’t let these boys rush you.” She turned toward the house interior. “But I’m glad you’re here. I’m not much of a detective, and I can’t see anything out of place.”

“Ah,” Skulduggery said, sounding pleased as he followed her and Dexter inside. “Finally, someone who appreciates my expertise.”

“ _We_ appreciate your expertise,” Erskine grumbled. “Most of the time.”

“Yes, I noticed that the last time you ignored my advice to go running to the damsel’s rescue and wound up with a frying-pan across the head.”

“You didn’t _give_ me any advice.”

“Of course I did. I’m very free with my advice. It isn’t _my_ fault if you—”

Tanith dropped past the men to walk beside Stephanie and whispered, “Are they always like this?”

“Always,” Stephanie promised. “And I’ve only known them for two days. How long have you known Dexter?”

“About twenty years,” Tanith said. “I used to date Saracen, sort-of. He introduced me to Dexter.”

Stephanie stared. “Twenty? How old are you?”

Tanith shrugged modestly. “Over fifty. I’m not going to narrow it down any further than that.”

“You look amazing.”

“Thank you.” Tanith grinned at her and they both laughed.

“What’s Saracen like?” Stephanie asked. “I haven’t met him yet. He’s in Australia.”

“He travels a lot,” Tanith agreed. “It’s how I met him. He’s funny and charming.”

“That doesn’t narrow it down at all.”

Tanith laughed again. “With this group, I guess it doesn’t. But it’s true. He likes a little leisure, a little adventure, a little excitement, but he isn’t the type who makes a struggle over anything. That’s his magic.”

“Sorry, what’s his magic?”

“He just knows things,” Tanith answered. “Just like that. When he’s in danger, especially.”

“That must be useful.”

“Not really. He usually only knows it about two seconds before it happens. Just enough for him to defend himself, but not enough to avoid it.”

“That must be annoying.”

“It was, especially since I was standing right next to him at the time.”

“If the two of you are quite finished,” Skulduggery said, “you can help us look for clues.”

“Clues.” Stephanie nodded. “Sure. What do they look like?”

Tanith snickered. Skulduggery looked at Stephanie, his head tilted. “Young lady,” he said, “I’m getting the impression you’re not respecting my authority.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Respect my authority or not respect my authority?”

“Yes.”

For a long moment Skulduggery gazed at her. Stephanie gazed back innocently, ignoring Tanith’s giggles, Ghastly’s grin, and Dexter’s smirk. Finally Skulduggery shook his head and turned away. “I’m obviously surrounded by children.”

“Oh, obviously,” Tanith echoed, and exchanged a grin with Stephanie.

“I think I should object to that,” Erskine said, mustering a ghostly smile. “By the way, Ghastly, is that bib I ordered ready yet?”

“Sure. Do you mean the one with the sailboat or the one with the little squeaky duck?”

“Duck,” Dexter immediately answered. “Let’s go with the duck.”

As they spoke they followed Skulduggery down the hall and then separated, each taking a room and calling insults at each other through the open doors. Stephanie and Tanith trailed after, examining the hall. Mostly there were just paintings. Paintings and carpet.

“Do you see any clues?” Tanith whispered to Stephanie.

“I’m waiting for them to jump out at me,” Stephanie admitted.

“You said you were thinking of a name,” Tanith said, looking at her sidelong. “What have you got so far?”

Stephanie stared at a painting, one of some old castle. While she had some ideas, she didn’t have enough to go talking about it. “Just things,” she said lamely. “I’m not sure I want to tell you. No offence.”

“None taken,” Tanith said. “I just figured it might be hard to think with that lot around. How did you get involved in this, anyway?”

Just like that Stephanie’s mood plummeted even further than it already had. She looked down. “Serpine had my uncle killed. Gordon Edgley.”

Tanith’s eyes widened. “ _No_. You’re _Gordon Edgley’s_ niece? Gordon Edgley was your _uncle_? The best magical fiction writer this century?”

After that they didn’t exactly get much done looking for clues, although Stephanie didn’t mind. Tanith was a big fan of Gordon’s and since the funeral Stephanie hadn’t had much chance to talk about Gordon just as _Gordon_. As her witty and fun-loving uncle, instead of a murder victim. It was nice to be able to discuss him to someone who appreciated him as a person, but wasn’t too close. Somehow it was easier with Tanith than with the Dead Men Plus, Tanith could tell her some of the stories which made them famous.

They were in the living-room, doing another pass of Tome’s books, when they heard Dexter’s phone ring to the sound of _I will survive_.

“Saracen!” Dexter answered. “Nice of you to—”

“Get out of there,” said Saracen over the speakerphone Dexter had obviously activated. “Wherever you are, get out of there _right now_.”

Tanith and Stephanie exchanged looks. Erskine poked his head through the door. “Okay, ladies, you heard the man, I hope and-or assume. Let’s go.”

“What is it?” Stephanie started to ask, but Tanith took her wrist and all but dragged her toward the door.

“Doesn’t matter,” Tanith answered. “When Saracen tells you to scram, you scram.”

They scrammed out the door, down the hall and into the Bentley. Skulduggery was at the wheel and pulling away almost before the doors had shut.

They were only at the end of the street when the house exploded. The road bucked, sending the Bentley flying and then slamming back onto asphalt with a worrying groan. Skulduggery fought for control, the car fishtailing this way and that around the corner before it levelled out. Stephanie pushed herself off Tanith, her shoulder aching where it had rammed into the back of the seat, and buckled herself in. Her hands were shaking. Saracen’s voice came distantly over the phone.

“Dex? Hey, Dexter! You aren’t dead, I know you aren’t, so talk to me!”

“Yeah,” Dexter panted, peeling himself off the dashboard with a groan. “That makes one of you. Skulduggery, I thought you were a _good_ driver.”

“I’m a _fantastic_ driver,” Skulduggery corrected. “ _We_ didn’t turn over.” He yanked the wheel and the tyres squealed as they pulled a sharp u-turn, and the next thing Stephanie knew they were back on the street. People all up and down were coming out to stare, horrified, at where Tome’s house had been. Black smoke was pouring up from the wreckage, but there didn’t seem to be a lot of actual fire.

Stephanie tore her gaze from that and looked for Hopeless’s blue pick-up truck. It was turned on its side a few feet from the corner. As they pulled up, Ghastly kicked open the door and hauled himself out, then reached inside and pulled Erskine out too. Ghastly looked bruised and was limping, and Erskine was bleeding from a cut near his hairline, swaying drunkenly, but they were both walking.

“What’s going on?” Saracen asked. “What blew up?”

“The house we were in,” Dexter grumbled, turning in his seat as Tanith shuffled over and Stephanie was obliged to climb into her lap to give the men space. “Are _you_ all alive back there?”

Erskine fell into the seat beside the girls. “I am going to kill something,” he muttered. “Maybe a wall. Or a painting. Or a sheep. Make me a sheep to kill, Ghastly.”

Ghastly climbed into the Bentley’s backseat and sank into it with a wordless mutter. Stephanie and Tanith looked at each other and broke into wild, relieved giggles which didn’t stop even as Skulduggery gunned the engine and peeled away from the ruin of Elder Tome’s house.


	13. The family tree

Had Stephanie said she didn’t expect to be seeing the Sanctuary twice in one day? Now she’d seen it three, and the third time was less than two hours after the second. Not to mention after being blown up. Her parents, she thought, were not going to be happy if they ever found out. No one was happy.

“Let me get this straight,” Rover said, and though he spoke to Skulduggery, he looked at her. Stephanie tried to ignore him by paging through the book Tanith had helped her find. “You guys got blown up.”

“The evidence got blown up,” Skulduggery answered grumpily.

“The _house you were in_ got blown up. While you were being accompanied by—”

“Why didn’t it explode the moment you were all inside the house?” Anton asked, interrupting.

“Oh, sure, I can use that to talk Fergus down, all right,” Rover grumbled. “‘Your niece was almost blown up but it’s all okay, because the house didn’t explode as _soon_ as she stepped inside.’”

“Stop treating me like a child,” Stephanie muttered.

“You _are_ a child!” He wasn’t a house, but Rover still exploded, whirling around. “You’re a _child_ and you could have been _killed_ and Fergus is going to kill _me_ because I trusted these idiots to _protect_ you—”

“Are you saying you can’t trust us to protect a twelve-year-old girl?” Erskine asked, raising his head. He winced, pulling the sponge away and using a mirror to look at the mottled bruises surrounding the cut. “In case you didn’t notice, the child is fine, I’m the one with the head injury and Ghastly’s twisted his ankle. Can we focus now?”

“If we didn’t know any better we’d think you have a thing for saving people,” Dexter added. “You nearly got killed for _me,_ you don’t need to go one better for the twelve-year-old. But if you feel the need to be an angel of mercy, you can come over here and give me a shoulder-rub.”

Rover opened his mouth, shut it, sighed and went over to him. “You’re a bad influence on me,” he told Dexter, digging his fingers into the blond’s shoulders. “You’re making me see _reason_. I should fix this.”

Dexter leaned back into his chair and sighed. “I’ll be whatever influence you want as long as you do your job and rub my shoulders, wife. Leave the child’s discipline to us.”

“Shudder brings up a valid point,” said Crow, completely ignoring Rover and Dexter in a fashion Stephanie didn’t expect of such an uptight-looking woman. “Why _didn’t_ the bomb go off when you arrived? Serpine is smart enough to develop a sensor for that.”

“He is,” Skulduggery agreed, “and I suspect he did. He also intended to catch as many of us in the trap as possible, so he laid in a time delay too. Keeping Tome was only a distraction to lead us to the house.” He still sounded disgruntled by the fact that Serpine had got one over on him. Stephanie, for her part, tried not to think too closely about the near miss.

“Did you find anything?” Meritorious asked, but he didn’t sound hopeful at all.

“Aside from an exploding bomb? No.”

“What now, then?” Ghastly asked, testing his ankle gingerly on the floor and hissing under his breath. Without a word Anton moved off his chair to kneel, taking the rapidly-thawing icepack and wrapping it more securely around Ghastly’s foot.

“Now we should go and get the Sceptre,” Skulduggery said. Every single eye turned toward him.

“That would be great,” Erskine said with asperity, “if we had the key to Gordon’s basement.”

“Oh, I know where the key is,” Skulduggery assured him.

“You know where the key is,” Corrival repeated flatly.

“Yes, I worked it out earlier today, thanks to our young friend here.” The skeleton tilted his head toward Stephanie, and all eyes followed. She did her best to ignore them, snapping her fingers out toward the page of the book. Nothing happened.

Inside, she was thinking fast. Skulduggery had almost figured out where the key was the night before last, when all this had started. “We were talking about ownership and things that can’t be passed on unless the person who owned them is dead.”

“The Sceptre,” Shudder pointed out without looking up except to hold out the thawed icepack. Rover interrupted Dexter’s shoulder-rub long enough to reach out and freeze it again.

“But in either case it would have been safest for Gordon to pass that object on,” Stephanie continued.

“Except in the case of the Sceptre,” Ghastly said grimly, sitting back in his chair with a sigh. “It’s too powerful to just pass on. So he put it underground instead.”

Stephanie frowned. “Why didn’t Serpine just order him to tell him where the key is? I thought you can do that with names.”

“You can,” Skulduggery said, “but I’ve long suspected that Gordon had taken a name without telling anyone. He had to as a protective measure, but he always resisted entering the world of sorcery as completely as most do.”

Stephanie stared. “Gordon had a name? What was it?”

Skulduggery’s shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “He never said. The only one who would know is Hopeless, and he wouldn’t tell either.”

“Like he didn’t tell anyone about Serpine,” Tanith said with a sigh. It wasn’t the first time she’d brought it up. She, like Stephanie, had had a bit of trouble grasping why Hopeless had kept silent, though she accepted it far more quickly and without anger.

“Or where the key is,” Corrival added pointedly.

“Ah. Yes.” Skulduggery’s head moved in Rover’s direction. “Don’t kill me, Rover, but the key is with Fergus.”

There was a moment before Rover groaned and Dexter made a noise of comprehension. “The brooch.”

“That’s right. ‘Sometimes the key to safe harbour is hidden from us, and sometimes it is right before our eyes.’ Gordon knew not to rely on Hopeless, but he wanted to give us access to the Sceptre if we needed to use it. Which we do.”

Rover buried his face in his hands. “I can’t believe this. I not only have to tell Fergus his niece was almost blown up, but that his brother thought it was a good idea to directly put his family in danger by bequeathing them a wanted object. I don’t suppose I could bribe someone else to do it?”

“That depends,” Dexter said, opening one eye, “on whether you plan to continue my shoulder-rub.”

“Now you’re just taking advantage,” Rover accused, but he resumed.

Erskine peered up at him from under the pack he was still holding over his gash. At least it had stopped bleeding now. “Rover, are you panicking?”

“Descry’s missing, my promise to keep Fergus’s family safe is in shreds on the floor, and Serpine is after a not-so-mythological big magical stick. Yes, I’m panicking.”

“You’re forgetting one very important thing,” Erskine said.

“Die all, die merrily?”

Erskine managed to smile. “I was going to say ‘tally-ho’, but that works too.”

Stephanie wasn’t sure why or how, but that made Rover laugh, and Anton glanced up at Dexter. “Speaking of, what _did_ Saracen say when you told him about Hopeless?”

The others exchanged looks or, in Skulduggery’s case, tilted his head. “We didn’t,” Dexter admitted. “He was between planes and barely had enough time to ring us about the house, let alone stay and chat.”

“Doesn’t he already know?” Tanith asked with a frown. Dexter shrugged.

“Who knows what Saracen knows half the time? Hopeless, of course, being the natural exception.”

“He’ll get here when he gets here,” Corrival said easily, checking an old-fashioned pocketwatch. “Can you ring Fergus now, Larrikin?”

“Not a chance,” Rover said with a twisted smile. “He’ll be out to dinner with his family for the rest of the evening and has already told me that he won’t pick up if he hears me ringing. And _last_ time I showed up without warning Beryl threw the potato salad at my head.” He shrugged. “She has a good arm, I’ve gotta say. Must’ve been all that tennis when she was younger.”

“Beryl played tennis?” Stephanie blurted out. Rover winked.

“How else do you think she caught Fergus’s attention, except for one of those short white skirts?”

She had not needed to know that. Stephanie made a face. “Ew.”

“The key can wait until tomorrow,” Meritorious said. “Serpine doesn’t know where it is, and you gentlemen don’t need it to continue looking for Hopeless overnight.” He hesitated then, and, to Stephanie’s great surprise, gave her a large thick envelope. “This was in my Journal. It’s addressed to you. I have not read it.”

From the reluctant way he held it out Stephanie could tell he wasn’t sure if he give it to her, but a glance at the front told her that Hopeless had written it. Meritorious wouldn’t want to betray his friend’s trust _again_. She turned it over and read the back. “‘Recommend reading in the presence of the Dead Men alone.’”

“After that,” Meritorious said, “ _I_ recommend you go home to your family and stay out of trouble.” The last would have sounded like a reprimand, except that he gave her a small, but tired smile as he rose and left the room. “Good evening, ladies. Gentlemen.”

Crow glanced toward Tanith and something passed between them, and then they left too, followed by Corrival grumbling about his tea and his crossword puzzle.

And then Stephanie was, once more, alone with the Dead Men.

“What does it say?” Rover asked nearly before the door had shut, trying to peer over at her without actually abandoning Dexter’s shoulders.

“I don’t know yet.” Stephanie ripped open the envelope and shook out its contents. There was a lot—or maybe it was because half the pages were so large and had been folded over several times. She started with the smallest sheet, an ordinary printer-sheet size, which was folded once in half. It was a print-out of an email, with the words underlined. “It says, ‘Gordon—not just a myth. You were right.’” She looked up. “The Sceptre?”

“Perhaps,” Skulduggery acknowledged, showing her the next sheet. This one was thicker, the same sized page but several pages long. “This is the story of the Sceptre.”

“But you’ve already told me that.”

“Not this version,” Skulduggery said. “You may have noticed Hopeless has a taste for old texts and tales, and reproducing them. Comes from having scribed a thousand books while he was still a monk, I suppose.”

“He was a _monk_?”

Skulduggery looked at her. “Why else would he have a room full of books he made and scribed himself? Keep up, Stephanie.” It did actually make a lot of sense. He lived all alone in a stone cottage, with a garden and books and not much technology. Stephanie still scowled at Dexter’s snicker as Skulduggery went on. “He has a knack for finding old texts and tales, probably because he knows exactly where to search. This looks like his own reproduction, except for this page here.”

He pulled out a page and held it up, and the Dead Men craned their heads to see it without having moved from their positions—except for Erskine, who, with a frown, got up to open the thickest and biggest sheets of paper.

Stephanie traced a line. “This bit here is highlighted. ‘The Faceless Ones created the crystal and the crystal sang to the Faceless Ones when an enemy neared. But when the Ancients approached the crystal was silent, and it did not sing to the Faceless Ones, and the Faceless Ones did not know it was taken.’” She looked up. “That’s the same thing that hologram guy said in the Vault. But what’s it mean exactly? That one of the Ancients could take the Sceptre without the owner knowing it?”

“It goes beyond that,” Erskine said, very quietly, and moved over one of the giant sheets of paper so the rest of them could see it.

“Wait a minute.” Ghastly pointed. “That. That crest. The leopard and crossed swords. That’s on all the original artefacts relating to the Ancient. This family is the best-known source for the Ancients’ history.”

Stephanie recognised it too. “You have a whole bunch of their stuff in the Vault.”

“This is their family history,” Erskine said simply, and pulled out another sheet. “It’s _all_ a family history.” He laid the second some distance under the first, and the third over the top of the second, and then Anton and Rover were there helping him piece the paper together like a puzzle. When they were done the result was spread across the whole of the table, a sprawling map of family trees. Most of them didn’t seem to naturally connect to one another, but Hopeless had, using thick orange lines too smooth to have been created any way but on a computer, written notes and drawn lines to match each of the trees up. Dexter pointed at the ones on the end.

“These are all mortal families. None of them have crests and the dates are too short to be for sorcerers.”

Stephanie stared at the one on the bottom. “Wait a minute. That’s _my_ family. Look. I’m on there.”

“And these are sorcerer families,” Erskine said from the head of the table. “I recognise one or two of them from the family histories Corrival inherited.”

“I’m related to Corrival?”

“No, your branch is too distant. This … this is a big map. A _really_ big map. So big that the people on one side aren’t even related to the people on the other. This goes back thousands of years.”

“The line,” Anton said quietly. “The bloodline Descry was tracing. Look at where it leads.”

They looked. Descry had traced in red a long line up the family trees, leading unbroken from Stephanie’s family to the one at the very top. The one with the leopard crest. Stephanie stared at it, standing up to see it all. They all stared at it. The notes at the very, very top claimed that the family tree went even further back, but that those records had been lost.

“I don’t get it,” Stephanie said at last, feeling confused and shaken at once. “I’m descended from the family who made all those things about the Ancients?”

Ghastly looked pale. All of them looked pale. They had all realised something she hadn’t. Skulduggery turned his head, slowly, to look at her. “How does that family know so much about the Ancients? How could they have painted a reproduction of the Sceptre with such accuracy? How could they know, with such detail, just what had happened between the Faceless Ones and the Ancients?”

For a long moment Stephanie still didn’t understand. Then it clicked and she went white, and her knees shook, and she had to sit down. “You mean I’m related to the _Ancients_?”

“Gordon knew,” Erskine said a little unsteadily. “He asked Hopeless to confirm it for him. No one else would know where to get hold of these kinds of details. Ghastly’s collection is big, but it doesn’t have everything.”

“What about China?” Stephanie asked, and Erskine shook his head, his face stoic.

“No one, _no one_ , can find out things like Descry can. China’s got the largest collection of rare books in the world and the way she gathers information is unique, but even she can’t match Descry for getting it. It’s why he was such a good spy during the war—that and the fact that no one could figure out how he was doing it. No one even knew he was the one who did. Not even China.” He threw a look Stephanie couldn’t define at Skulduggery.

“I thought he was a monk.”

“Right. And then he was a spy.”

“I can see him as a monk more.”

“Everyone could. That’s why he was such a good spy.”

“They must have both known about the Sceptre’s existence for _years_ ,” Dexter mumbled, and then shook his head. “Typical.”

“It does explain why Gordon was so interested in the Sceptre, without having written about it yet,” Skulduggery said, “and why he was so intent on leaving it hidden unless absolutely necessary.”

“Does Fergus know?” Anton glanced toward Rover, but Rover threw up his hands.

“What do I look like, a guardian angel? I have no idea. I didn’t even know they suspected _this_.” Then he frowned suddenly. “But he has told me once or twice about their family legends. Stuff about magic, the same way families that turned mortal have tales about their ancestors. He never seemed interested in the details. So what? What does this have to do with anything? It’s a shocker, but it doesn’t help us now.”

“It might,” Dexter objected. “If Serpine gets the Sceptre, then we have a way past its security system.”

“And it gives us an edge while we’re looking for it tomorrow morning,” Skulduggery said. “Maybe it calls to the blood. Maybe having someone descended from the Ancients there will help us find it. It could be why Gordon could face the dangers down there alone, even with the safety of not using magic.”

“Safety?” Stephanie asked.

“The creatures down there feed on magic,” Erskine told her. “Mortals are safer than sorcerers, so long as they can avoid coming face-to-face with the things down there. And Gordon might have known exactly where to go.”

“Plans!” Rover clapped. “I like plans!”

“Plans,” Skulduggery agreed. “I take Stephanie home and tomorrow you, or Stephanie, or possibly both of you, ask Fergus for the key.”

“Me,” Stephanie and Rover said at once, then looked at each other with mutual scowls. Dexter laughed, and Rover pointed at her. “But Daddy, she _always_ gets to do the fun stuff,” he whined.

“That’s why I said both of you,” Skulduggery said in a tone of amusement. “In the meantime, may I suggest that Ghastly keeps these family records locked up somewhere safe?”

Stephanie looked down at the family tree. Had Gordon, all this time, kept this in his house, or had he asked Hopeless to keep them for him? Or were these copies Hopeless had made for himself, just in case something like this happened? She swallowed and nodded. “Yes, please.”

“Very good.” Skulduggery picked up his hat and put it on his head just so. “Let’s be off, young lady. You need a good night’s sleep.”

“ _I_ need a good night’s sleep,” Erskine grumbled, reaching up to touch the gash on his forehead and sighing when his fingers still came away damp. “Just because you’re the only one who doesn’t need a good night’s sleep is no reason to lord it over the rest of us.”

“You’re admitting that you’re actually going to _try_ to get a good night’s sleep?”

“Not a chance. I’m headed to the Repository.”

“There _is_ one advantage to Skulduggery not sleeping,” Anton pointed out, helping Ghastly to his feet.

“You put a candle inside his head and he becomes an instant nightlight _and_ bodyguard in one,” Rover said promptly.

“It did work pretty well,” Dexter agreed, getting to his feet with a yawn and a stretch.

“May I have some measure of dignity, or is that too much to ask?” Skulduggery asked. Stephanie stared.

“You actually did it?” She looked at Dexter and then back at Skulduggery, trying to imagine him with a candle inside his skull. “Wasn’t it kind of eerie? Like a Jack O’Lantern?”

“Oh, it was,” Rover said, and grinned. “But we did it during Halloween, wrapped him in a cape and took him trick or treating. Now _that_ was a fun night.”

Stephanie didn’t stop laughing until they made it up to the Bentley, and didn’t stop teasing Skulduggery for it until he’d dropped her off a street down from her house.


	14. Fathers, brothers, daughters

Stephanie woke the next morning not entirely sure if she was happy with what they were about to do. The problem with going to Fergus for help was that he was going to want to know why, and then he might try to forbid her from being involved. She dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, then trudged over to her uncle’s house and knocked on the door. The sun was shining and the birds were singing and Stephanie managed to find a smile, but it wasn’t a smile that was returned when the door opened and Fergus looked at her.

He sighed. “Come in. Rover and his friend are already here, and Beryl has taken the twins out shopping.”

“You know if you’re trying to stop Beryl from using money, telling her to go shopping isn’t the way to do it, right?” Stephanie observed as she stepped in. Fergus shot her a look, but made no response as he turned and led her into the kitchen.

Rover and Skulduggery were already there. Skulduggery was standing, but Rover was sprawled in a chair while attacking a half-empty plate of waffles and with a nearly-finished cup of tea by his elbow. He pointed his knife at her. Fergus winced as it dripped honey on the table.

“Are you aware thif man makef heavenly wafflef?” Rover asked her with his mouth full.

“I do now,” Stephanie told him, grinning. “Is this something I should tell Dexter? Wouldn’t he be jealous?”

“Oh, probably,” Rover agreed, swallowing and then stuffing his face an instant later. “But that’f hif fault for not being able to make heavenly wafflef.”

“Would you like a cup of tea?” Fergus asked, stoically ignoring Rover’s cheerfulness.

“No, I’m okay.” Stephanie slid into a chair opposite Rover, half fascinating and half repulsed by the way he was almost inhaling his food.

“What’s this about, then?” Fergus didn’t sit. He stood behind the chair between them, leaning on it.

“Well,” Rover said through another mouthful. “It’f about that brooch you’n Beryl got from Gordon.”

“It’s a key,” Stephanie said. “It’s a key into—”

“The tunnels under Gordon’s house,” Fergus finished. They stared at him. Rover even put down his cutlery.

“You _knew_?” Stephanie blurted. Fergus turned an unappealing shade of red and looked away, but his knuckles were white where he gripped the chair.

“I’ve been down there.”

“When?” Rover demanded. Fergus didn’t look back.

“A few years ago. Gordon wanted my help to hide something under there. He didn’t tell me what and I didn’t ask, but he said it was safer if it was the two of us instead of one of you sorcerers.”

“He was right,” Skulduggery said. “I haven’t been down myself, but from what I’ve heard it’s a very unpleasant place for anyone with magic.”

Rover laughed. “Of course it was unpleasant. You didn’t go down there with us.”

“You’ve been down there,” Stephanie repeated, still staring. “I thought you didn’t like the whole magic thing. But you went _down_ there?”

“I _don’t_ like the whole magic thing,” Fergus snapped, scowling at her. “The ‘whole magic thing’ almost tore my family apart. But Gordon was worried—said he was in over his head. He wanted my help. I wasn’t going to say no. I just didn’t want to know details.”

“Yes, well, we need the object Gordon was hiding,” Skulduggery said. “Which means we need the key. We also need one of you to come down with us.”

“I’ll do it,” Stephanie said at once.

“You will not,” Fergus objected on the heels of her words. “I’m not letting you go down there.”

“Why not? I can’t use magic yet. The monsters won’t be interested in me.”

“That doesn’t mean it won’t be dangerous.”

“Does that mean you’re volunteering?” Skulduggery asked, and Fergus stopped, paling. For a moment he said nothing. Then he lifted his chin, looking challengingly at Skulduggery.

“Yes. It means I’m volunteering.” He looked scared half to death. Stephanie frowned.

“You don’t have to,” she said. “I _want_ to go. I’ll be fine. I’ll be with the Dead Men.”

Fergus snorted. “Yes, five trigger-happy sorcerers with their pet undead Elemental, in a place filled with monsters attracted by magic. No. Absolutely not. I told Gordon, I _told him_ , that I wouldn’t interfere with what he did if only Desmond and his family were kept out of it, and he agreed.”

“You _aren’t_ my father,” Stephanie said, trying not to get angry. She’d done that once and wound up humiliated.

“I don’t care,” Fergus told her. “I’m your uncle. I’m trying to protect you.”

“I don’t need prot—” Stephanie cut herself off to take a deep breath. Right. Last time she’d had a conversation like this, it had been with Corrival. She still didn’t see how there was a difference between needing protection and not being able to take care of yourself, but what was that other thing he’d said?

_“Stop acting like a little girl thinking about her own ego and start acting like a woman thinking about the best thing for the team, the case and the man who needs rescuing.”_

This wasn’t about the man who needed rescuing, but there was still a case involved. She _wanted_ to go, but she had never been into the tunnels under Gordon’s house. Fergus had. On the other hand, he was old and he didn’t exercise very often, and it sounded like they might get attacked.

She looked up at Fergus. “I’m younger and fitter,” she said firmly. “If something happens, I’ll be less likely to be hurt than you because I can get away more easily.”

Fergus had been prepared for another angry objection. When it didn’t happen he looked startled. Skulduggery tilted his head in a manner which seemed to be approval. Rover was looking at her with more intensity than she’d seen him look at anything, but he was grinning at the same time. For a moment Stephanie was hopeful.

Then Rover said, “That’s true, but Fergus knows the way. That means if he comes, _all_ of us are less likely to be hurt, not just him. We won’t spend as much time wandering around, which means less chance of running into those things you’ll be able to get away from and we won’t.”

Stephanie opened her mouth, closed it, and blinked. “I didn’t think of that.”

“Eh.” Rover waved a hand and shovelled waffle into his mouth. “You’re juft not ufed to team finking yet.”

“Then it’s settled,” Skulduggery said. “Fergus will accompany us into the tunnels to get the Sceptre.”

“What about me?” Stephanie blurted. She turned to Fergus. “I _want_ to be involved. Gordon was my uncle too. I get why you don’t want me down there and it—” She hesitated. “It makes sense. For you to go and not me.” It felt weird to say that. Kind of annoying, kind of a relief, but kind of made her feel more confident too. It _did_ make sense, the way Rover had put it, and when it was put like that it didn’t make her feel like she couldn’t go just because of her age—even though she knew that was part of the reason why _Fergus_ didn’t want her to go. “But I still want to be involved in the case. I don’t know if I can’t be involved anymore. Serpine knows about me.”

Fergus looked like he was going to object, but then his shoulders slumped. “I know. Rover said.”

“So we’ll take her to the Sanctuary before we go,” Rover said with a shrug, polishing honey off his plate with a piece of waffle. “She can help Corrival and Tanith. Or badger people into helping her learn magic.”

“She’s been a material witness,” Skulduggery agreed. “It would be best if she was under protection, and we can’t do it if we’re all underground looking for a big magical stick. The Sanctuary would be the best place for her. What do you say?”

He turned his skull suddenly toward her. Stephanie considered that. What Rover said was true. If Corrival or Tanith needed help trying to find Hopeless, she had seen the cottage, and she had spoken to him before that. And she had left the magic book behind, though she was sure she could practice on her own now. Finally she nodded. “Okay. Sure.”

Fergus sighed and rubbed his face, but Stephanie saw the fear. “Fine. Okay. You take the key and take Stephanie to the Sanctuary. I need to finish some things first, so I’ll meet you all at Gordon’s.”

“I do so love plans,” Rover said cheerfully, and popped his last piece of waffle into his mouth.

 

Fergus waited until Stephanie and Rover had left with Skulduggery Pleasant, and then went mindlessly through some of his paperwork. The paperwork included his will, which he kept regularly updated. Just in case. Rover’s friends were lunatics. Then he put things off with random minutia until, finally, he sank into a kitchen chair and put his head in his hands.

He was a simple man. He wanted to live a normal, unmagical life, without having to get involved in all the magical dangers. Gordon had liked that danger a lot more than Fergus had been comfortable with, but at least he’d been reasonable about it. But Stephanie … Stephanie. She had no idea what she was getting into.

He had to be fair, Fergus argued to himself. She’d accepted not going a lot more easily than he’d expected, and her argument had been logical. Mature even. But she was still only a child.

Still a child, and he, the only other remaining member of his family who knew the family’s secret, was about to walk into an acknowledged death-trap.

Fergus had blurted out his need for the time automatically, panicked and with half-formed plans floating in his head. Now he needed to think things over _rationally_ and still all he could think about was how willing Stephanie had been to throw herself into the maze that lay beneath her future new-old house.

He couldn’t control her. He was only her uncle. There were only two people who could control her recklessness, and he’d sworn not to tell them anything a long time ago.

But if it came down to his brother’s daughter being in danger and the family secret being out …

Fergus made up his mind and got up, going to the phone. He needed to call Desmond. He needed to make sure he’d still be at the house when Fergus went to talk to him.

Desmond was only too willing to put off going to work for a little while longer. The problem was that as soon as Fergus had hung up the phone, he felt as if there was no way he could leave his house. His hands and knees were trembling. Then again, that could have been his whole body. It was the nerves and the adrenaline, and he gave in to the urge to take a shot of whiskey. Then he had to resist the urge to take the whole bottle. He compromised with a second shot.

Less than ten minutes later he pulled up to the curb outside Desmond’s house. “Oh, there you are,” said his brother from the doorway. He was wearing his office suit—except for the fact that he was missing his socks. “You’re lucky. I almost ran out the door.” Fergus smiled weakly. It came out more like a grimace. “Is there something wrong with your face?”

“If only,” Fergus mumbled, coming up the drive to take Des’s arm and turn him around into the house. “Desmond, we need to talk.”

“We are talking,” Des said, looking and sounding puzzled.

“You’re missing your socks.”

“Oh.” Desmond glanced down. “I wondered why my shoes felt so uncomfortable today. Is that what you wanted to talk about?”

Fergus sighed and directed his brother to the kitchen table, checking his watch. He had just over fifteen minutes before Pleasant reached Gordon’s house. Fifteen minutes to destroy his brother’s world and save his niece’s. He just wasn’t sure where to start and for a moment he floundered, with Desmond looking up at him in confusion.

“Did Beryl ask you to ask us about the villa?” he said finally.

Fergus almost laughed. He knew if he had, it would have come out hysterical. “No, this isn’t about the villa. Des, do you remember the story of family curse?”

Something shut down in Desmond’s face, something edged with surprise and suspicion. Of course it did. Only once, only _once_ , had Fergus ever raised this subject with Desmond. Actually, it had been Desmond who raised it with Fergus, a long time ago. They had been talking about Gordon and it had been the hardest conversation of Fergus’s life. Before Rover, before Fergus had accepted—with resignation—the presence of magic in Gordon’s life, back when he’d made the choice to actively lie to his brother. Even after he and Gordon had made up, they’d agreed to let Desmond stay in the dark.

Fergus was sure this conversation topped that one for difficulty the moment he had decided to have it.

“It’s somewhat difficult to forget,” Desmond said carefully, still confused.

“It’s true,” Fergus said. His closed his shaking hands into fists and stuffed them into his jacket pockets. “It’s all true. Magic, being the last of the Ancients, all of it. It’s dangerous, so Pops begged me to help keep you and Gordon out of it.” He barked a laugh. “It worked with you. Not with Gordon. But it’s true. All of it.”

Desmond’s face had frozen in a combination of disbelief and yearning, but now it blanked to worry. “Fergus,” he said carefully, and floundered himself. In the end he dismissed any care and went directly to honesty. “The little tiff you and Gordon had wasn’t really subtle, you know, but there are times that I think you’re each other’s favourite brother. I’d be jealous, but then I remember that I have my wife.” He smiled, a sad smile but a genuine one. “You’re grieving for Gordon. There’s no need to take his beliefs too.”

This time the urge to laugh was mixed with the equally strong urge to cry. Fergus managed to control both by rubbing his face hard. He didn’t think it would really be that easy. “You scared us both,” he said quietly, “with how hard you believed and how reckless you’d be. Pops couldn’t control you. I didn’t think I’d be able to either. We just wanted to keep you safe. Just remember that. Please.”

He lowered his hands and snapped his fingers, and a spark ran across his palm and flared into a tiny flame. It wasn’t much—it was barely enough to light a candle, and it only lasted for a few seconds—but it was still magic. He’d learned it himself, on those few occasions when Gordon and the Dead Men’s stories made him want to know more. The allure had never actually changed his mind, but right now—it was enough.

Desmond stared at Fergus’s hand. “I think I didn’t get as much sleep last night as I should have,” he said. “Or I was sleep-drinking.” He nodded firmly. “Yes, that must be it. I was sleep-drinking, and now I’m drunk.”

“You’re not.” Fergus snapped his fingers again, and this time managed to cradle the flame for a good five seconds. The silence ran for a lot longer, up until Fergus checked his watch again. Ten minutes until he had to be at the estate, and it was a fifteen-minute drive. “Desmond, I’d like to give you the chance to take this in properly, but I can’t. I don’t have time. It’s about Stephanie.”

Desmond’s head snapped up. “What about Stephanie?”

“She knows,” Fergus said heavily. “She found out by accident, after—after a sorcerer tried to rob Gordon’s house while she was in there the other night.”

His brother stared. “She’s known about magic for two days? _You’ve_ known she’s known for two days?”

“I tried to protect her,” Fergus said, pale. “I’ve managed—a little. But there’s something I need to do, a magical item Gordon hid which I need to get for some of his friends. Stephanie wanted to do it, but I told her no. It’s too dangerous. It’s so dangerous that I don’t know if I’ll—” His voice failed, but then he swallowed and managed to force the words out. “I don’t know if I’ll come out again. I couldn’t risk no one else knowing. Stephanie’s too much like _you_. She needs someone to keep an eye on her.”

Desmond was still staring. He couldn’t seem to even try and find words. Fergus looked at his watch. “I need to go,” he said, and his voice shook. “Just don’t—Beryl and the twins. They don’t know. Please don’t tell them. I don’t want them to get into danger too.”

“Where’s Stephanie?” Desmond asked, his voice rising. Fergus wasn’t sure if it was anger or panic.

“She’s at the Sanctuary,” Fergus admitted.

“The what?”

“The Sanctuary, it’s like the seat of their government. She’s a material witness to the case involving this magical item; she needed to be somewhere safe. The entrance is in the back of the Waxworks Museum. Tell them who you are, they should let you in—goodbye, Desmond.”

Before Desmond could call him back, Fergus turned and walked out of his brother’s house.


	15. No calm before the storm

“No, no,” Corrival said patiently. “What are you thinking before you gesture?”

Stephanie scowled down at the book. “‘Move, you damned page.’”

Corrival chuckled. “Same as everyone else, then. Look.” He picked up a single page, holding it upright until she could almost see the light through it. “If you wanted to make the page fall without magic, what would you do?”

“I’d poke it.”

“And you’d do that by?”

“Moving my hand.”

“And your hand would move because?”

“Because of muscles and bones.”

“And the muscles and bones move your hand _how_?”

She looked at him. There was a suspicious twinkle in his eyes. “Because,” she said slowly as if she was talking to someone having trouble understanding her, “the muscles and bones work together—oh.”

Corrival nodded and let the page fall. “Magic is a series of processes and sequences just like physics. Your hand moves because of biological processes.”

“So I should try to use magical processes,” Stephanie said, and frowned. “But I don’t know what they are.”

The older sorcerer waved his hand at right angle to hers. With a gust the pages went flapping and her hand shifted before she resisted the draft. “What did you feel?”

“The air.”

“Which means?”

“Which means,” Stephanie said, again slowly, but this time in thought. “That I should be aiming for moving physics, not moving magic. Because the air is a thing, like my bones and muscles are.”

“Better,” Corrival told her. “The air has to go somewhere. What you need is a series of moving parts which ultimately move the page.”

“So I imagine the air like a bunch of moving parts.”

“Now you’ve got it.” Corrival leaned back in his chair and stretched with a groan. “What’s the time? I think I’ve missed my midday cup of tea.”

“You’ve grown mellow with age, Corrival,” Morwenna said as she entered the room, Tanith behind her. They were both carrying a stack of files and paperwork.

“I’m enjoying my retirement,” Corrival corrected. Stephanie looked up from trying to imagine the air like a series of Tetris blocks.

“What are those?”

“Everything we have on everywhere Serpine has ever used as a base,” Morwenna said, putting her burden down on the table. “Since Detective Pleasant objects to our usual speed of process, I thought we may as well get a head-start on finding where else Serpine might be holding Sagacious and Hopeless.”

“We?” Stephanie asked in surprise.

Morwenna looked at her and said, “They’re my friends too.”

Stephanie felt herself redden, but when Tanith set down a stack beside her she looked up to find the blonde swordswoman smiling. “Come on,” Tanith said. “It’s good to take rests during training too. Want to help us look stuff up? It’d be like detective’s research.”

“That’s rest?” Stephanie made a face, but she grinned and took some paperwork. “What am I looking for?”

“Location,” Morwenna said, handing out a sheaf to Corrival too. “We need a short-list of places Serpine would be able to easily hold one or two prisoners, most likely somewhere that isn’t too far from Dublin. Failing that, anything which seems suspicious to you.”

“Oh.” Something in Stephanie’s stomach leapt. This was actually really important. “Okay.”

Serpine had been spotted at a lot of places. Sometimes they crossed over, so the four of them left those files in a pile. Otherwise it was just a matter of sorting and trying to be as logical as possible. It wasn’t easy, and it didn’t take long before Stephanie got bored. She knew she wasn’t the only one. Once she looked up and caught Tanith staring at a wall while fidgeting with a page. Corrival couldn’t seem to sit still, but whenever he got up to walk around he took some of the paper with him. Morwenna worked steadily and, as far as Stephanie could see, without any breaks at all.

Still, aside from the occasional lapse Stephanie put her head down and grimly tried to concentrate. This was her only chance to help right now, and she had to take it.

She wasn’t sure exactly when, but eventually Meritorious came hurrying into the room, his expression anxious. “You’ve found something?”

Morwenna looked up at him, startled. “Nothing especially noteworthy.”

He frowned. “But I just got your message—”

“What message?” Corrival demanded, putting down his paperwork. Before Meritorious could answer, Tome shimmered up from nothing next to him. He wasn’t alone. He had with him about a dozen Hollow Men and a man with sleek black hair and a skinless right hand.

Meritorious cursed and threw himself backward, his hands lifting, but before he could use any magic Tome seized his arm and they vanished. The man with the red hand raised it, but Corrival and Morwenna were already moving in toward Tanith and Stephanie. The world turned dark and foggy, and Stephanie felt as if she couldn’t breathe, as if she was cold to the bone. The feeling only lasted a moment before they were back on solid ground. Stephanie stumbled and looked around wildly, but the four of them were alone in a room Stephanie hadn’t seen on her earlier tour—it looked like a cellar, and a dusty one at that.

“Have I mentioned that I hate it when you do that?” Corrival asked, brushing off his clothes.

Tanith was also looking around, her hand on her sword. “We’re still in the Sanctuary.”

“The Sanctuary was built with wards to prevent shadow-walking in and out,” Morwenna said bitterly. “Sagacious must have activated them. I couldn’t get through.”

“Then he’s been on Serpine’s side all along,” Stephanie said. “Hopeless was wrong. That was Serpine, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, that was Serpine,” Corrival agreed, frowning. “But I’ve never known Hopeless to be wrong. Skulduggery is wrong rarely. Hopeless is wrong even less. It’s one of the annoying things about those two.”

“He wasn’t wrong,” Morwenna said. She looked pale, and her mouth was a thin line of anger. “Sagacious isn’t being given a choice. Serpine has turned him into a reanimation.”

“A zombie?”

Morwenna shook her head. “No. Zombies fall apart in a matter of days, and they lose their intelligence even faster. They also can’t use magic. Sagacious was turned into something else, and it’s bound him to Serpine’s will. He has no choice but to obey.”

“This is why he kept Tome.” Corrival pulled his phone out of his pocket. “With Tome as a puppet, Serpine has access to all parts of the Sanctuary without having to fight anyone.”

“And he will have locked me out of as many of the wards and systems as possible,” Morwenna added.

“What about the Grand Mage?” Tanith asked, turning from her prowl of the cellar’s walls. Morwenna’s expression turned bleak.

“If Serpine can turn one Elder, he can turn another.”

“Doesn’t he need time for that?”

“He’s done it twice already. I imagine he knows the process by now.”

“Twice?” Corrival said sharply. Morwenna closed her eyes and nodded.

“Both of them. Sagacious and Serpine. Sagacious must have been the test subject, before Serpine turned the magic on himself.”

“What did he do?” Stephanie asked, but Morwenna shook her head this time.

“I’m not sure. There are numerous ways to create reanimations, some of them more effective than others. I didn’t have time to figure out which method he used.”

“But they’re both dead? Like Skulduggery?”

Morwenna smiled grimly. “Something like that.”

“And Serpine’s likely planning to do the same to Meritorious, if it means he’ll be enslaved,” Corrival said.

“Great. Can we call the Dead Men?” Stephanie demanded.

“Nope.” Corrival turned his phone toward her. The screen blinked with a ‘contact unavailable’ warning. “The Sanctuary has facility-wide reception. The caves under Gordon’s house don’t.”

“What about Bliss?” Tanith asked.

“He was called away not long before you all arrived,” Morwenna answered with frustration. Tanith reached for her phone. “There was a discovery at Serpine’s castle—supposedly. Something about the Sceptre.”

“And he’s out of range too.” Tanith scowled down at her phone and shoved it angrily back into her pocket, fingers playing across the pommel of her sword like she wished she’d had time to stick it in someone before Morwenna had taken them away. “Then the Sceptre was a distraction all along.”

“And we still don’t even know what Serpine really wants.” Stephanie slumped. She was now stuck in a Sanctuary which had been taken over by an evil sorcerer. She probably would have been safer in the tunnels. “What do we do now?”

She looked up to see the three of them looking at her, but in thought. “What _does_ Serpine want?” Corrival asked out loud. “The Sceptre can’t just have been a distraction. He put too much time into it. Something happened to make him realise he didn’t need it anymore, but he let us keep believing that he did. Why?”

“The distraction _did_ work,” Stephanie pointed out, but this time it was Tanith who shook her head.

“He means ‘Why distract us from the _Sanctuary_?’ What’s here that he wants? You don’t become Grand Mage just by staging a coup.”

Stephanie met Corrival’s gaze, thinking of what he’d said about some people being too precious to risk, about the difference between being weak and needing protection, and knew he was thinking the same thing. “Hostages,” she said quietly. “He gets hostages.”

There was a moment of silence. Morwenna broke it. “Even then, he still needs them _for_ something. What is it?”

“I know someone who could tell us,” Tanith said, getting out her phone and punching a speed-dial.

Morwenna frowned. “Would he know? I didn’t think his magic worked like that.”

“He might, if he spoke to Hopeless in the last two days,” said Corrival.

Tanith put the phone on speaker and they listened to it ring in silence. It seemed like forever before anyone picked up, and then Saracen’s voice sounded loud in the cellar. “Tanith? Where are you?”

In spite of everything Tanith grinned. “Don’t you know?”

“I know you’re hiding from Serpine, but not where.”

“In a Sanctuary cellar.”

“Oh. Well, that’s good. He’s after the Book of Names.”

There was a moment of heavy silence. Then Stephanie blurted, “How did you know that?”

“I just know,” Saracen said, sounding frazzled. “That one was a surprise, but it’s true.”

“Have you spoken to Hopeless?” Corrival asked.

“Have I—right. Yes. A few days ago. He couldn’t tell me anything. Is that Valkyrie? Valkyrie Cain?”

“Yes,” Stephanie said before she could stop to think, because as soon as he’d said the name she knew it was the right one, the one that had been lurking in her head and waiting for the right time to come out. Corrival lifted his eyebrows, and Morwenna sent her a piercing look. Tanith gave her a grin.

“I thought so. Pretty name. Kind of gruesome, though. I’ll be back in Dublin inside a few hours.”

“See if you can find Bliss,” Morwenna ordered without removing her gaze from Stephanie. “Tanith can give you his number if you need it, but he’s out of reception range right now. He was called out to Serpine’s castle. Don’t be surprised if he was ambushed—there or en route.”

“It’d take more than Hollow Men to stop Bliss,” Saracen said, “but he’ll be fine either way.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know,” he said simply, and disconnected.

“What are we going to do in the meantime?” Tanith asked, closing her phone.

“Try to hold out until Bliss and the Dead Men get here,” Corrival answered grimly.

“The Book of Names is protected,” Stephanie protested, “with the will of the Elders. How can he get it?”

“Two of those Elders no longer have a will of their own,” Morwenna pointed out. “Or won’t, very soon.”

“There must be something you can do for Meritorious,” Tanith argued. “You’re a necromancer.”

“I don’t know exactly what Serpine’s _done_ , let alone how to fix it,” Morwenna snapped back, losing her composure for the first time since Stephanie had met her.

“Maybe not,” Corrival said quietly, “but you’re the only chance he has right now. I know you don’t like making rash decisions, Morwenna, but Meritorious doesn’t have that kind of time.”

For a moment Morwenna hesitated, and Stephanie saw fear on her face. Then she closed her eyes and seemed to steel herself, because when she opened them her expression was resolved. “You’re right. The rest of you should guard the Book.”

“I’ll go with you,” Corrival corrected. “You’ll need someone to distract Serpine or the Hollow Men, or both if it comes to that. And we should really try to find the Administrator, if Serpine hasn’t killed him.”

“I can guard the Book,” Tanith volunteered. “I’ve done that before, and I’m no good at detective-work.”

Morwenna nodded, the relief on her face obvious. “Then it’s up to Valkyrie to find the Administrator. The best place to start would be the lobby; he has an office near there. He’ll know how to lock down the Sanctuary and mobilise the rest of the Cleavers.” She turned to Tanith. “I—or the Administrator—may be able to send some Cleavers to help you.”

“Can’t she take the Book somewhere else?” Stephanie asked. “I mean, if she has your permission?”

The Elder shook her head. “It doesn’t work that way, unfortunately. Tanith will have to keep watch from inside the room. Luckily there’s a lot in there to hide behind.”

“How will I get there?” Tanith asked with a frown. “Serpine’s sure to have the door guarded.”

“I’ll take you, before Corrival and I go to find Meritorious.”

“Will you be able to find him?” Stephanie asked, imagining them wandering around the Sanctuary and into a Hollow Man trap. Then she remembered that she’d be doing that to find the Administrator.

Morwenna smiled a dark, cutting smile that made Stephanie shiver. “If Serpine thinks he can kill and reanimate himself and expect to hide from _me_ , he’s far less canny than I gave him credit for being. I’ll find them—easily. Like calls to like, after all.”

“They’ll be expecting you,” Tanith said. “What about Hopeless? Would Serpine have brought him with?”

“It’s doubtful. Serpine knows when to hold something back.” Corrival looked at Stephanie, and although it sounded like he was talking to them all Stephanie didn’t think so. “Are we ready?”

Stephanie took a deep breath, bracing herself for that blankness and deep cold. It still hadn’t quite left her from the first time. “Yes,” she said firmly, looking him straight in the eye. “We’re ready.”

A flicker of a smile crossed Corrival’s mouth. “Good.”

They linked hands, and Morwenna closed her eyes, and the rustling shadows took them out of the cellar.


	16. Deep in Dublin, death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for graphic evidence of torture.

Eachan Meritorious breathed slowly and deeply, and tried not to panic. He was, after seven centuries, extremely good at not panicking, but even after seven centuries he could still be taken by surprise.

Sagacious’s apparent betrayal wasn’t the part that did it. Nor was the reason behind that apparent betrayal. Nor, in all honesty, was the fact that Serpine was there and currently planning to torture him. It was _how_ Serpine intended to torture him, without even the primary reason being to torture.

But most of all it was the knowledge that this time Hopeless would not be able to save him, and all because Eachan had forsaken his opinion.

Until now Eachan had never quite realised how much he relied on Hopeless. He thought he’d known. Many, many times throughout their tenure he thought he’d figured things out. Invariably he’d be wrong. It wasn’t that Hopeless could read his mind—it was that, in the beginning, Eachan had forgotten he could. Hopeless had been used to subservience, back then, and Eachan had found it startlingly easy to adjust to having a valet. A great deal of what Hopeless told him could be passed off as excellent observation.

Eventually that comfortable complacency had come tumbling down because of a young ambitious sorcerer, a powerful religious leader. No one had seen Mevolent at first; he had been just another face among the young clan leaders. No one had cared enough to know his name. No one but Hopeless.

Eachan still remembered the day Hopeless had brought Skulduggery Pleasant and Ghastly Bespoke into his office, burdened by reams of evidence. He remembered being shocked that Hopeless had been right, shocked and livid at himself and taking it out on Hopeless. He remembered demanding to know what Hopeless had been thinking, taking the risks Eachan hadn’t imagined he would, even knowing an investigation was occurring.

He remembered the way Hopeless had hunched in and then straightened, given him an even, collected look and then said, “I was thinking about saving the world.”

And that evidence. Files, blueprints, manuscripts, orders. Proof that Mevolent had been planning war just as Hopeless had said.

It was like being blinded and then, suddenly, not. Like looking at a child and realising they no longer were. When Eachan looked at Hopeless after that, he knew he was seeing a man with lifetimes’ worth of knowledge and experience. He saw someone nearly all-knowing, the person responsible for Eachan’s own authority and power and _life_ having been what it was. He saw someone who had every right and power to judge him, and didn’t.

Eachan had meant for Hopeless’s position as manservant to be a front for his true purpose, but the mind-reader had become more than that. Servant. Friend. Confidant. Victim. Demon. Saviour.

_Meritorious’s shadow._

“Where is Hopeless?” Eachan asked, his voice even. There was no sign he was afraid. Anxious, yes, but none that said he was _afraid_.

Serpine laughed. “Oh, your pet _mind-reader_? I have to admit, that secret was exceedingly well kept. Well, through most of the war, anyway. It’s obvious to me that Mevolent found out, and I imagine it’s obvious to _you_ just how he did.” Smiling genially, Serpine pulled up a seat beside Eachan’s head. They were in the Grand Mage’s office, primarily because Serpine had a flair for dramatic irony and Eachan had a very large desk. He was now strapped to that desk, drugged and unable to move but strangely clear-headed. He’d been inserted with tubes, some kind of IV, but hadn’t quite mustered the desire to look for details.

“You know, I honestly thought I’d need the Sceptre to kill you,” Serpine told him conversationally, his fingers drumming on the lid of a box in his lap. Eachan did not want to see what was in that box. “Then I found your little _shadow_ , and everything fell into place. You were the biggest threat to my master’s victory. Some of our lesser worshippers actually wondered if you’d discovered a magic to make you properly invincible. All along, you were simply forewarned by your precious Descry. You’re hardly a great threat on your own, are you? You’re just an old man cunning enough to use the talents of a more powerful sorcerer for his own gain.”

Serpine shook his head with marvelling, incredulous amusement, as if he could hardly believe they’d all been taken in for so long.

Eachan’s heart clenched. “What have you done to him?”

“Now, Meritorious, you’re hardly in the position to be demanding anything,” Serpine chided. “But since I have every intention of telling you anyway, I’ll forgive that transgression.”

Eachan’s gut turned to ice. If Serpine _wanted_ to tell him, it must be something awful. Something far worse than simply Hopeless’s death. Worse than what had happened last time? _Was_ there anything worse than what had happened last time? “What you’ve done to Sagacious. You did it to Hopeless as well.”

 _What you’re about to do to me,_ went unsaid.

“Oh, no,” Serpine said. “True, I could have, but I wouldn’t know for certain just what might happen if I did. Would I receive a mind-reader fully under my control, or the mental reflection of someone utterly useless to me? No, no. Once I took your dear Descry I was on a time limit. His mental control, I have to admit, is exemplary. It was too much a wildcard to rely upon.”

All of which only meant that Serpine had done something much worse, if there could be anything worse than being trapped inside one’s undying body, under the thrall of a madman. Eachan risked a glance down toward Tome, standing at the door. The Teleporter was absolutely stationary in a way only Skulduggery could manage, but his gaze was locked on Eachan and the anguish in his expression made Eachan have to look away again.

“Perhaps I’ll try it later,” Serpine mused, his fingers caressing the box on his lap. “He’s well-hidden now, of course, but I couldn’t very well risk someone finding him, so I took …” He smiled. “… precautions.”

Eachan’s body felt heavy in a way he knew had nothing to do with the drug. His breath was raspier in his chest. If he looked to his far side he’d see the tubes in him, and he didn’t want to know what might be inside them. Far from making his helpless fear distant, the dizziness made it sharper. He wasn’t sure it was off his face anymore.

His voice was weak, but Eachan couldn’t tell if that was from fear or light-headedness. Maybe both. “What have you done to him?”

Serpine’s smile broadened. “Why, I simply made sure that, in the unlikely event he ever is found, he’ll be unable to communicate what he heard from _my_ head. And unlike Mevolent, I took no chances.”

Eachan’s breath caught and then shook as he exhaled. Serpine opened the box and tilted it so Eachan could see, the objects inside striking the velvet-lined interior with soft thuds. Almost the instant his gaze registered them Eachan jerked his head away, his body trembling as he gagged. Serpine’s laugh echoed over the ring in his ears.

They were fingers. Hopeless’s fingers and an amorphous lump of muscle which was Hopeless’s tongue.

“Rather effective, don’t you think?” Serpine rattled the box. Eachan kept his head turned firmly away, his eyes closed, and tried to breathe evenly. It didn’t work. The dull thuds of that rattle echoed in his head. “Satisfying, too, I have to admit, particularly given the part where he pleaded with me. I did offer to simply kill him if he told me something worthwhile, but he’s a stubborn man. I suppose he’d have to be, but even still. I was impressed. No wonder you were so difficult to kill.”

He put the box beside Eachan’s head. Eachan’s skin prickled all over with the flushing heat of nausea and he swallowed hard several times to keep his stomach down, staring up at the ceiling and the odd turn of shadows in them. His heart leapt and his voice was more even than he imagined possible as he asked, “Where is he?”

“Somewhere safe,” Serpine said, “for _me._ Beyond that, you don’t honestly think I’ll tell you, do you?”

“It won’t matter,” Eachan answered reasonably. “I’ll be yours, soon.”

“Very true. However, I wouldn’t put it past you to have some sort of recording spell on this room. Perhaps you aren’t quite the cockroach we believed you were, Meritorious, but you’re still far too intelligent a man to simply hand over my secrets like that.”

For several moments Eachan chose to breathe rather than respond. He would need all his focus to capture and hold Serpine’s attention. It had been a long time since he’d had to enthral a person with nothing but his magicless voice. Then, finally, he spoke. “You’re right.”

“Am I?” Serpine looked intrigued. Eachan met the man’s eyes.

“Yes. Hopeless is more powerful than me, and I used him for my own agenda. He was the one who guided me to sweep your master’s supporters out from under his feet. Who told me when and where your master plotted to strike. Who rescued me when you sought to assassinate all the leaders of the rebellion. But, Nefarian, there is a question here you have neglected to ask when you should have.”

“And what’s that?”

Eachan smiled, a small smile filled with all the quiet self-assurance and amusement of a man who held all the cards. “You should have asked why Hopeless is _my_ shadow—rather than I being _his_.”

Serpine lifted an eyebrow. The shadows drew together overhead. The door slammed open and the Hollow Man on guard burst into flames and then exploded. The pair on either side of it exploded too. Eachan didn’t have time to regret the loss of the books that went up with them, or the fact that the walls of his office were catching fire. Serpine was on his feet and he wheeled around and raised his hand, and the flames and smoke billowed around him without touching him.

Morwenna dropped down and landed beside Eachan, and speared the three nearest Hollow Men with necromantic shadows. They deflated with a hiss and the flames caught on the gas, spreading to the desk.

The shadows slashed through Eachan’s IV and restraints, but Serpine was turning around. Eachan could barely see him through the steam. The Grand Mage grabbed the box next to his head and rolled off the desk, and all but collapsed on the floor when his limbs refused to hold him. He could hear flames roaring and water sizzling, and struggled dizzily to his feet. He looked up and saw Sagacious in front of him, and knew he wasn’t strong enough to avoid him if Serpine had ordered the teleporter to take him elsewhere.

Except that Sagacious didn’t. He stood where he was, his face flickering between grief and guilt and some kind of plea. Then his expression shifted into surprised relief and he vanished. Alone.

There was no time to consider why. Eachan clutched the box and thrust out his hand toward the shape he knew was Serpine. He heard a yelp and the silhouette vanished amidst the billow of steam, but then another one rose up beside him, cloaked in shadows. He let Morwenna take his arm and submitted to the chill of necromancy, and the only sense he had was someone joining them before they spilled out into the Sanctuary’s Eye.

Eachan sank down toward the floor again and this time it was Corrival who caught him. His breathing was still laboured and his vision was turning white, but he saw Skulduggery’s newest follower leap up from the chair in the middle of the room.

“Is he okay?” she demanded.

“Give him a moment,” Morwenna chided her, rising and moving to the crystal that stood in its centre. The Sanctuary’s Eye was something of an experiment designed to mimic mortal security cameras, but it had been abandoned when no one could integrate it into the Sanctuary wards as much as was necessary for it to be useful. Last time anyone had tried they had brought down the electricity board for ten blocks around.

“Turn it off,” Eachan said weakly.

“We’ve got it on a timer,” Corrival assured him, changing his grip and half carrying him to the wall where he could sit against it. “And only looking at a few different areas at once. Besides, if the power goes out it might actually help us.”

It was probably true. From the looks of things the Eye was watching his office, still filled with steam; the Repository, centred on the Book of Names; and the entrance hall. In the image of the last Eachan could see Sanctuary employees starting to gather, aware that something was wrong but not quite _what_. A handful of Cleavers were arrayed around the room, clearly guarding against something deeper inside the Sanctuary.

He looked around the alcove. It was a tiny thing in the back of the Repository—not even its own room. The only other thing in there with them was a formless shape shrouded in Corrival’s coat. “Who was that?”

“The Administrator,” said the girl in a soft tone, the sort that couldn’t decide if it wanted to be young and small or mature and gentle. “He helped me get in here.”

“Serpine used Sagacious’s connection to the Sanctuary to block off every hall from here to your office,” Morwenna said, kneeling beside him and turning his head to look at his neck. He felt a sharp pain and something being tugged out of his skin. “The Hollow Men have killed everyone inside that line—except for us and Tanith Low. We have her guarding the Book.”

“The Book?” Eachan looked at Corrival only because he couldn’t see Morwenna. “He’s after the Book?”

“According to Saracen, yes,” Corrival said grimly. “Serpine probably thought having two Elders under his thrall would be enough to break the spell. How is he?”

“Anaemic,” Morwenna said, and Eachan hissed when she yanked out another needle. “But alive. The needle-marks are closing over on their own.” He couldn’t see her face, but he could hear the frown.

Both Corrival and the child relaxed. She pointed at the box in Eachan’s lap. “What’s that?”

Unconsciously Eachan gripped it tighter but then he forced his grasp to loosen, pushing the box at Corrival. “This needs to be kept safe,” he ordered. The Sanctuary employed good people. If they found Hopeless in time, maybe his missing fingers could be reattached.

Corrival looked baffled as he opened the box, but more quickly than Eachan would have thought possible he paled and snapped it shut again. Corrival Deuce was not an easy man to unnerve, but it took him two tries to answer, and even then his voice was unsteady. “Consider it done.”

“What is it?” the child wanted to know with a frown. Eachan opened his mouth to deny her that knowledge and then closed it. She might have seen the Administrator die. Who was he to oppose her question?

Corrival looked at her in the eye. “It’s Hopeless’s fingers and tongue,” he said. “Do you want to see?”

She went grey and then green in quick succession. “No, I’m okay, thanks.”

“Smart woman.”

Wise man. Eachan wished he’d paid more attention to the wise men he’d had at his disposal after the Truce. “Our rescue?” He frowned. “Sagacious. He’s gone.”

“Saracen is looking for Bliss,” Morwenna answered, leaning him back against the wall. She smiled at him, that particular edged smile of black mischief. “And I called an old student of mine about helping us wrest Sagacious from Serpine’s control. He was already in the process of countering the spell, but between us we managed it more quickly. I wouldn’t call Sagacious _free_ , but he is no longer under the thrall of a madman.”

“That depends on which of your students you asked for help,” Corrival muttered.

“The one who owes me a favour,” Morwenna answered evenly. “If I survive this, Sagacious _will_ be free. On that you have my word.”

“Doesn’t that just mean he’ll die?” the girl asked with a frown.

“Yes,” Morwenna admitted, “but some fates are worse than death, whatever my colleagues might tell you.”

“Why? What do they say?”

“Necromancers have a tendency to be anti-death at all costs,” Corrival explained. “Morwenna is a rogue. Too powerful a rogue for the rest of the Temple to object to, but rogue nonetheless.”

“Oh. Well, then, I hope this favour is a good one, because—” The girl stopped. She stared at the Eye’s images. All the blood that had returned to her face drained out of it again. “Oh, God. Oh _no_.”

As one Eachan and the others turned to follow her gaze. The image of the Grand Mage’s office had shifted to Serpine making his furious but purposeful way down the hall. The one on the Book hadn’t changed. But the one on the lobby was showing Mr Bliss moving through a crowd of confused and alarmed employees like a yacht through a still ocean. His suit was battered and Bliss himself sported a cut on his bald head, but Eachan let himself go limp with relief against the wall.

“Can Bliss break through the lockdown doors?” Corrival asked.

“Not through spellwork, but if anyone could get through by brute-force alone …” Morwenna didn’t need to finish. For a moment they all watched as someone pushed their way to Bliss and spoke to him, gesturing wildly. Then Morwenna turned to the girl. “What’s wrong, Valkyrie?”

Valkyrie. She had taken a name after all. Eachan fixed it in his mind.

“The man following Bliss,” Valkyrie said, and this time there was no mistaking the fact that her voice was small. Eachan looked again. There was indeed a man following closely behind Bliss. He was wearing a business suit, but Eachan didn’t recognise him as one of the Sanctuary employees. His expression was a mix of bewildered wonder and fearful determination.

“Who is it?” Eachan asked.

“That’s my dad,” Valkyrie said.

They stared in silence as Bliss said something to the crowd and then moved through them toward the corridor leading to the Repository. The other sorcerers parted easily for him and Valkyrie’s father trailed doggedly in his wake. Eachan turned to Valkyrie.

“I’m sorry, Valkyrie,” he said with regret, “but he is about to become a participant in a war, just as you did.”


	17. Carnage

Desmond liked to think he had lived a nice relatively fulfilled life. True, he had turned his back on a number of childhood dreams, but most people did once they realised that some childhood dreams were unfulfillable.

Then Fergus had completely destroyed any belief in his childhood dreams actually _being_ childhood dreams in one fell swoop.

The plain truth was that Desmond didn’t know how to feel. Shocked was probably at the top of the list. Disconcerted was also up there. Angry, that Fergus and Gordon had lied to him all this time. Afraid because apparently he couldn’t protect Stephanie nearly as well as he thought.

Deep, abiding wonder.

It was true. All of it. _True_. Magic was real. Desmond had been half convinced Fergus was coming late into his childhood with a prank, right up until the wall at the back of the Waxworks had opened and a startled woman emerged. He was almost sure she’d been as startled as he was.

He had just been explaining to her, as calmly as he could manage, that he was looking for his daughter, and she seemed to be assuming he meant a little girl who had simply wandered off. That was when the very scary bald man had come down the corridor with that inexorable purpose of a freight-train. He had stopped just long enough to ask what was going on. Desmond had said that his daughter had been shanghaied into some sort of case involving the retrieval of magical items, that she was really too young to be involved in cases, and that he really would like her returned because he and his wife were actually quite fond of her.

He hadn’t mentioned names. He remembered that much, from his grandfather’s stories.

The man had looked at him and said that probably wouldn’t be possible. An evil madman had taken over the Sanctuary. Would he care to come with?

Which was why Desmond now found himself sticking close to Mr Bliss’s broad back as he strode—and Desmond half-jogged—through the halls. Quite suddenly they turned a corner and came to a dead end. Mr Bliss stopped in front of it and stood still. For several minutes he seemed to just stare. Desmond shifted nervously from foot to foot, looked down, and realised he still wasn’t wearing any socks.

He looked up and cleared his throat. “Shall we turn back, then?”

“No.” Mr Bliss had the kind of voice which wasn’t as deep as it sounded. Just even and very, very final.

“Oh. Because I just thought finding another way might be more productive than staring at a wall. I mean, unless you have laser eyes or something …” He trailed off. Mr Bliss had turned his head just slightly to look him out the corner of his eye. But the man said nothing and looked back at the wall, and Desmond shifted uneasily again.

Then Mr Bliss pulled back his fist, rocked on his feels, and putting his whole body into it he punched the wall just left of the centre. The wall exploded outward. The walls on either side shook. So did the floor. Desmond stood staring in open-mouthed shock as Mr Bliss stepped over the debris and continued his way down the hall. The sorcerer was ten feet away before Des regained his senses and ran after him.

It took his looking down so he didn’t trip before Des realised bits of the wall wasn’t all that was on the floor. He leapt away from the bludgeoned and very dead woman with a strangled yell, then looked up to see someone moving out of an intersection into the passage.

Or some _thing_. It was shaped vaguely like a man, except it had no face and it looked like it was made of paper. It saw them and swung its very heavy-looking fist at Mr Bliss. Mr Bliss didn’t even stop. He ducked under it and caught the paper-man across the chest with his arm. With the sound of tearing paper and a giant farting, the paper-man’s chest collapsed and split and it deflated, its hands and feet thudding to the floor. Mr Bliss kept walking. Desmond covered his mouth with his shirt and followed, his eyes watering.

“Where are we going?” he gasped. He was trying to decide whether or not the paper-man’s stink was better or worse than a skunk. Not that he’d ever smelled a skunk before.

“The Repository,” Mr Bliss said without turning or slowing down.

“Who are we after?”

“His name is Nefarian Serpine. He was the servant of a powerful and evil sorcerer, and is now a master himself.”

“What does he want?” Desmond asked, his mouth dry. What would a powerful and evil sorcerer want?

“I had thought he wanted something called the Sceptre of the Ancients, but he’s surprised me. He chose not to pursue its location after all.”

Desmond didn’t need to see Mr Bliss’s face to hear the frown, but he wasn’t paying attention. He felt all the blood drain out of his face. “The Sceptre?”

Now Mr Bliss turned his head just enough to see him, and Desmond thought he might have been surprised. Just a little. Which for this man was probably a lot. “You know it?”

Desmond swallowed hard. “My brother told me about it.”

He didn’t specify which one. It had been both. It had also been his grandfather. _Mostly_ his grandfather, actually. When he was a boy, a magic knight smiting evil and fighting darkness, the Sceptre had been his chosen weapon.

“Nefarian Serpine tried to get the Sceptre,” Mr Bliss said, and his sidelong gaze was so even that it sent chills down Desmond’s spine. He was glad when the sorcerer looked front again. “It was my belief that he felt he needed it to achieve his ultimate goals, but he abandoned that course of action before I could predict his next.”

“And now he’s taken over the Sanctuary.”

“A good deal of it.”

“What’s in the Repository?”

“An item far more powerful and frightening than any simple magic stick.”

“Oh. That’s encouraging.” And not at all what he remembered of the Sceptre. If that was just a ‘simple magic stick’, what could Serpine possibly want?

“It _is_ protected.”

“That’s good to know.”

“But I cannot account for the location of the Elders, who cast the spell protecting it. If they’re dead, this object may well already be in Serpine’s hands.”

“That’s not very good, though.”

“Therefore we need to make our way to the Repository with all due haste.”

“Yes, I’m hasting right now …”

Desmond was. He refused to look down at the floor again in case he saw something he didn’t want to, which made it harder. Sometimes he couldn’t help it anyway. More than once he saw the gleaming armour of those men with scythes lying mostly hidden under heaps of paper. His chest ached and he was breathless from jogging just to keep up. One of Mr Bliss’s strides seemed to cover more distance than two of Desmond’s. He was also fairly sure Mr Bliss was deliberately needling him. No one could be that humourless. Right?

They—and by ‘they’ Desmond meant, of course, Mr Bliss—had left at least five corridors’ worth of the paper-men in their wake when all of a sudden their shadows mingled together and a woman stepped out of the wall. Desmond jumped back with a yelp, but Mr Bliss stopped and faced her.

“Elder Crow,” he said. “I’m glad to see you alive. The others?”

“We shouldn’t talk here,” said Elder Crow. She didn’t look like an elder, Desmond thought, but he sometimes knew when not to talk and so said nothing. She spared him a piercing glance he wished she’d kept to herself and then looked back at Mr Bliss. “Serpine is only two passages away. You’re cut off.”

“He’s after the Book,” Mr Bliss said, and Elder Crow nodded.

“We know. Saracen reached you, then?”

Mr Bliss frowned. Desmond’s gut lurched. “Saracen? No. The ambush—”

“Ah, there you are.”

The three of them whirled around to face the man at the end of the hallway where they’d just come. He was tall and sleek, sort-of like a weasel, or maybe a snake, but Desmond didn’t care about that. He cared about the fact that this man’s right hand was just skinless bone and red sinew. A moment later, he cared that they had paper-men in the hallway on all sides of them.

Elder Crow said something Desmond was fairly sure he did not want Stephanie to hear and reached out to grip both their arms. Shadows drew up but then she cried out in pain and they dropped away instead, and she bent inward with a twisted face.

“Now, Morwenna,” said the man with the fleshless hand, looking amused. “I’m insulted you didn’t think I’d be prepared for you, though I admit it took some time to put into practice.”

“How?” Elder Crow—no, Morwenna, Desmond decided. Morwenna suited her better—gasped. “We saw you—two corridors over—”

“Reflections are such useful things, aren’t they?” Serpine, and it had to be Serpine, smiled. “Mr Bliss. I did suspect you weren’t as much on my side as you assured me you were, but it doesn’t matter all that much now.” Mr Bliss shifted his weight and Morwenna straightened despite the lines of pain around her mouth and eyes.

“The Repository is two halls down on the right,” Mr Bliss said quietly, his gaze glued to Serpine, “and then immediately on the left. Go to the end of the hall to the janitor’s entrance.”

It took Desmond a moment to realise that Mr Bliss was talking to him. He swallowed hard. Directions weren’t exactly his best talent. Or any talent at all, really. “Second right, left, end of hall.”

Serpine laughed. “He’ll never make it. My reflection is headed that way, don’t forget.”

“Reflections can’t use magic,” Morwenna told him, and the shadows flowed around her, spikes shooting every which way at the paper-men. Desmond yelped, ducked and was about to back against the wall when Mr Bliss shouted as he lunged at another of the paper-men.

“Run! Go!”

The paper-men behind them surged toward them, but a thick pillar of shadow impaled one and tossed the other aside. Then Desmond’s way was clear, so he ran. He ran and didn’t look back at the sounds of battle behind him.

There were other paper-men in the hallway, but with how heavy their hands and feet were they couldn’t move very fast at all. He ducked and wove between them, trying not to think too hard about what he was doing. His lungs felt like they were going to burst and his gut felt like someone was stabbing him with a hot poker, and he had decided somewhere back with the others that these shoes needed to be burned as soon as humanly possible, but he kept running.

He stumbled into the final corridor and saw a door slam open. A paper-man stepped out and his heart lurched, but it was too late. Des felt the air move and the weight of that thing’s fist, and he ducked but didn’t stop. There was a crunch of plaster and he felt little chips cut his cheek, and then the door was _there_ , right there.

He ran through and almost collided with a ball of fire.

Desmond yelped and dove, and found shelter behind a stone pedestal. The flames licked past, singing his hair. Something exploded on the other side and Desmond heard fire roaring.

“Dad!”

Desmond looked up. He saw Stephanie, his Stephanie wearing clothes he’d never seen before, beckoning him frantically from an alcove like the ones you found in a museum. It was twenty feet away. It looked like a hundred.

“Dad, come on!”

Later on Desmond’s head would scold him and ask just what he’d been thinking. Right then, he wasn’t thinking much of anything. He blew across the distance and into the alcove, almost tripped over a wooden box, and sank gasping against the far wall. A moment later Stephanie was hugging him. Desmond hugged her back, trembling and not planning to let go for at least a century, but then he suddenly pulled away and gripped her arms.

“You’re grounded, young lady,” he said.

Stephanie grimaced. “I’m sorry, I had to, it’s too complicated to explain right now. Here.” She pushed a phone into his hands. He almost dropped it. “Ring Saracen,” she said. “Or Dexter, or Fergus.”

“He’s grounded too,” Desmond mumbled, but he found the phone’s contact-list. ‘Dexter Vex’ was near the top, so Desmond called him first, but the call didn’t even connect. ‘Saracen Rue’ was further down, so Desmond chose it and held the phone to his ear, turning to watch Stephanie. She was doing something with the crystal in the alcove, making it brighter and brighter. The hum made his hair stand on end.

The phone rang out. Desmond found his in his pocket and was about to call Fergus when he heard Serpine’s voice over the battle outside.

“Cease.”

All at once all the sounds from outside the alcove stopped except for flames crackling. Stephanie looked at Desmond, pale and horrified, and motioned at the crystal. Desmond glanced at it, then past it, and saw the image on the wall. It was the room they were in, a silent picture, but they could still hear everything from just past the alcove entrance.

The first thing he saw was how many paper-men lay burned or slashed on the floor. The second was that there was a blonde woman in leather and holding a sword, and two older men, thankfully _not_ in leather. One of them was short and stocky, and looked like a pit-bull. The other was thinner and tall, and sickly.

The third was that there were two Serpines. One was burned, but as they watched the burns healed over and became normal skin. He had a blank look in his eyes.

The other was striding through the door, one hand upraised and writhing with purple ribbons of energy. They connected him to Mr Bliss, bound and being dragged through mid-air. Serpine flicked his wrist and Mr Bliss crashed into a table. He and the table collapsed, and then Mr Bliss didn’t move.

Another group of the paper-men came in behind Serpine. They were dragging Morwenna with them. The moment they stopped moving she rolled over and opened her eyes, blinking through the blood seeping down from a gash in her forehead.

The first Serpine turned to the second and asked, “Are you ready to resume your life?”

“Yes, yes.” Serpine waved a hand, too busy looking at the tall, sick-looking man. “Go on, then.” Desmond felt a shiver as the Serpine-who-wasn’t-Serpine turned and left the room. Serpine, the real Serpine, smiled. “Hello again, Meritorious. I think this is what they call ‘checkmate’.”

“Is it?” Meritorious asked. In spite of his paleness he stood straight, ready to fight. They all did.

“Oh, come now. I may not have Tome anymore, but he can hardly be said to have a will of his own. Bliss is down. The Dead Men distracted. I imagine Mr Rue has come off his plane to my greeting party. And you, my dear Grand Mage, are slowly dying.” Serpine shrugged. “If you’d stayed with me it would have been much quicker.”

“And I would no longer have a will of my own,” Meritorious observed.

“True. Not that it matters, since I have Ms Crow now.” He nudged Morwenna with his foot and used a handkerchief to toss something across the floor. She glared up at him, but her eyes were unfocussed.

“And precisely how do you plan to turn her?” Meritorious asked mildly. “She’s a necromancer. You won’t be able to experiment with her as easily.”

“Looks more like a stand-off to me,” said the pit-bull man. The lady in leather didn’t say anything, but the way she was cleaning bits of paper off her sword with a rag and glaring at Serpine as if imagining carving him up was very intimidating as far as Desmond was concerned.

Serpine smiled a slow smile Desmond could barely see through his watering eyes. It took him a moment to realise that was because the crystal was still growing brighter. He could hardly see the image, but he heard Serpine’s voice. “I don’t need to turn her. I need her without a will of her own. Death serves just as well.”

He raised his right hand toward her. Pit-Bull Man snapped out both his palms. Morwenna slid ungracefully across the floor, but Desmond caught a glimpse of her face. That was enough for him to not want to know what that red right hand really did.

“Dad,” Stephanie whispered. Desmond tore his gaze from the image to look at her, squinting in the light. “That box by your feet—don’t lose it, it’s really important.”

Desmond looked down. He saw his sockless-but-shoed feet. He saw the box and picked it up with sweaty, shaking hands. When he looked up again he saw Serpine snapping around toward Pit-Bill Man and Meritorious. They were already moving, but the blonde woman was moving faster—slicing through the other paper-men like they were, well, paper. Purple vapour gathered around Serpine’s hand, but Pit-Bull Man was throwing fire and Meritorious had gone for Morwenna.

Without warning there was a fizzle at the crystal and all the lights went out. Serpine cursed. Desmond heard gas catching alight and flames burst to life in the darkness, overwhelming with their dazzle. Blinking rapidly, Desmond felt Stephanie seize his hand and drag him out of the alcove toward the door. He stumbled and almost fell, but then caught his balance and managed to follow.

Something loomed at them. Stephanie ducked. Desmond ducked. The paper-man’s fist whistled overhead and Desmond yanked Stephanie off her feet before she could run into it. That took them away from the door, and they took cover behind a table instead. Desmond clutched the box to his chest. What was in it? Another crystal? Some other all-powerful object? The Book Serpine was after?

Desmond peeked out from behind the pedestal. There were enough of the paper-men—and some other things—burning to illuminate the room but there were more coming in through the door. The gas was making it hard to breathe. Pit-Bull Man and Lady Leather were having trouble fighting them off, especially since Pit-Bull Man couldn’t use fire anymore without blowing everything up.

Serpine was fighting Meritorious. For a sick old man, Meritorious was very quick. He dodged something that looked like red lightning and then did some kind of gesture with his hands and the air around Serpine spun like a whirlwind, sucking fire and paper into it. Something in it turned purple, and then those purple tendrils blasted out from all sides, interrupting the whirlwind.

“ _Enough_ ,” Serpine snarled. He whirled toward Morwenna and thrust out his hand. Meritorious did something and the air gusted and he blurred, and then he was between them. He screamed and collapsed and the pain seemed to be too much for him, because he stopped screaming. He was still moving, though. His face contorted with agony. Stephanie tried to look but Desmond pulled her against his chest, giving her the box.

He looked, though. He couldn’t tear his gaze away.

And then all of a sudden the room was three times as full, and a skeleton dressed in a very nice suit lunged forward and punched Serpine across the jaw.


	18. Dead men

Stephanie shivered against her father’s chest, clutching the box he’d handed her. She heard Meritorious scream, but she didn’t try to look again. She didn’t want to see. Had she thought things would be easier if her parents didn’t know? Right now she couldn’t imagine being here alone.

The sound of someone being punched and a weirdly strangled noise her father made caught her attention. She turned to look past his arm and saw Tome disappearing and the Dead Men still there, and her heart leapt. They didn’t have anything that looked like a Sceptre, but it didn’t seem to matter. Skulduggery had just punched Serpine. Anton Shudder was shaking so hard that Stephanie wondered if he was hurt. Then something with fangs and claws burst out of his chest and tore screaming through the rest of the Hollow Men, still attached to Shudder by a long looping cord of magic. Corrival waved Erskine off, but he was limping. Tanith leaned on Dexter’s arm, breathing hard and holding her shoulder strangely. Rover had leapt over a fallen table to check on Bliss, and Ghastly knelt by Morwenna and Meritorious. Fergus looked around wildly, saw them, and rushed over.

“Stephanie! Des!” He hugged them. Stephanie thought he was trembling almost as hard as Shudder, and she was so surprised by the hug that she didn’t manage to hug him back before he pulled away.

“There’s a moving skeleton,” Dad said in that same strangled tone. Stephanie almost laughed.

“That’s Mr Pleasant,” she said. Shudder’s monster screamed. “What’s _that_?”

“Shudder’s gist,” Fergus said. Rover had gotten up. He nodded to Ghastly and then snapped his hand at Serpine. A spear of ice flew across the room and impaled him in the chest as he dodged one of Skulduggery’s punches.

“His geis?” Dad asked. Serpine pulled the icicle out of his chest with a wet sound and the wound healed.

“Gist. I think it’s related. Rover described it as a manifestation of all his anger and hatred.” They watched it tear through the last of the Hollow Men, its eyes black. Then the cord pulled tight and it shrieked with helpless rage as it was sucked back into Shudder’s chest, and he fell forward, catching himself on the ground with his hands.

Ghastly joined the fight against Serpine. Morwenna moved sluggishly toward Meritorious. He was still breathing, but his eyes were closed and looked pale and waxen. Stephanie remembered suddenly what Serpine had said—about him dying slowly. Serpine hadn’t finished what he’d been doing to him, but that might not matter.

Fergus ran over to Shudder to help him up, but the man shook his head and pushed Fergus away, and straightened. He was still trembling, but from the set of his face and mouth Stephanie guessed that this wasn’t a fight he intended to miss. Corrival had just sunk down beside Morwenna, giving her something—maybe the object Serpine had taken from her, whatever it was.

“Come on.” Stephanie tugged herself out of Dad’s grip, gave him the box and ran over to them. Dad yelped, but she heard him follow. A moment later, so did Fergus.

“I’m too old for this,” Corrival mumbled. Tanith had found her sword. She came over to join them, still cradling her arm awkwardly but looking over at the fight as if wishing she could help.

“Is Meritorious okay?” Stephanie asked.

“He’s dying,” Morwenna said shortly. Her face was lined with grief and caked with blood from the cut on her forehead, and her hair was all coming out of its bun. It made her look much softer. She cradled his head in her lap and held a brooch in one hand. It seemed to whisper but Stephanie couldn’t tell what it might be saying or how. Meritorious’s breathing hitched and drew out like something scraping against metal. “Whatever Serpine was doing, it shouldn’t be interrupted halfway.”

“But he was healing!” Stephanie protested. Morwenna shook her head. She gripped the brooch like a lifeline, but her other hand fell to take Meritorious’s hand.

“That made it worse. It used up more energy than he could spare, and he never received whatever Serpine intended to replace it.”

“What are you going to do?” Dad asked. Morwenna looked at him and then at Meritorious without answering.

His eyes had opened. He looked back at her and Stephanie thought he smiled, and then his eyes closed and he breathed out. He didn’t breathe in again.

Tanith bowed her head. Corrival rubbed his face, and his eyes were red. Stephanie swallowed. She felt sick. Her eyes prickled. She heard Dad mutter, “Hold this,” at Fergus, and then a moment later he pulled her into a hug.

There was the scrape of someone standing and Stephanie looked up to see Morwenna spread her cloak over Meritorious’s body. Then the necromancer turned toward Serpine.

All the remaining Dead Men were fighting him now. It was obvious they were more than a match—they moved fluidly and without talking to one another, covering each other easily. They weren’t talking at all, in fact, even to banter. Dexter’s shields morphed around the room almost like they were living things. Ghastly and Skulduggery double-teamed Serpine with one punch and then another, laying him down to the ground. Rover, a sarcastic grin on his face, froze over patches of floor and then Anton tossed objects from the sidelines to trip Serpine up with a bland determination which belied the sheer childishness of the action. Erskine just ducked in and out, harassing Serpine with small puffs of flame. It would have almost been like a dance, except that it struck Stephanie as being much more like a pack of cats playing with a mouse.

A mouse who wouldn’t die. Every time Serpine was hit, the wound simply healed over.

“Fools,” he cried, thrusting his hands out and blasting them back with that purple fog, but Stephanie thought she could see panic in his eyes. “I can’t die!”

“You’re already dead,” Morwenna snarled. “And now I know how.” She cupped her brooch in her hands and the shadows whipped around her. They weren’t like the ones before—they were transparent and stayed on the floor, instead of becoming solid, but they whipped up to Serpine and covered him like a shroud, turning him sickly. He stumbled and gasped, and Ghastly punched him in the face. He slammed back against the wall and nearly fell, but Dexter shot him in the chest with an energy-beam.

Serpine coughed and raised one hand, and red lightning crackled across the room toward Rover. Dexter got in the way and it slammed into a shimmering kite-shaped shield. In nearly the same instant Serpine pointed the other at Skulduggery, and the skeleton writhed and screamed, his bones cracking.

Shudder picked up a knife from one of the tables and threw it, end over end, at Serpine’s forehead. He caught it in his hand, impaled through his palm, and Skulduggery stopped screaming. Erskine slammed Serpine back against the wall using nothing but air. Morwenna stepped forward, eyes flashing. Shadows gathered in her fist and she stretched out her hand. They shot forward and engulfed Serpine like a flock of bats, but when they drew away along the wall he was still alive.

Alive but braced half-upright on the floor and gasping great shuddering breaths, just the same as Meritorious had. His skin turned sunken and waxen as Stephanie watched.

“You don’t play dead with a necromancer, Nefarian,” Morwenna said coldly, and turned on her heel to stride back through the Dead Men toward Meritorious’s body. “He’s all yours, gentlemen.”

“Skulduggery.” Rover bowed elaborately. “Will you do the honours?”

“Gladly.” Skulduggery straightened up and snapped his fingers, and flames burst in his palm.

Stephanie didn’t see it. Dad pulled her back to his chest before Skulduggery actually threw the fireball. Serpine didn’t even scream. When Stephanie managed to look back, all she saw was ash on the floor.  
She swallowed.

“Was that really necessary?” Dad asked weakly.

“Yes,” Fergus said stoically, but even he was pale. Dad stared at him.

“Yes? Couldn’t they have just arrested him?”

Fergus met his gaze, and Stephanie shivered at the hardness in his eyes. “He murdered Gordon.”

Stephanie looked up in time to see all the blood drain out of Dad’s face. “Oh.”

“Not to mention a great many others,” Corrival said gruffly. He wasn’t looking at them. He was watching the Dead Men, the way they relaxed slowly and actually started bantering again. Rover slung Anton’s arm over his shoulders, scolding him for straining himself. Dexter and Erskine started arguing about their timing. Ghastly clapped a hand to Skulduggery’s shoulder, but the skeleton remained a moment, staring down at the ashes. “Skulduggery and his wife and daughter included.”

“I didn’t know that,” Stephanie said softly.

“There’s a reason no one trusted his bias,” said a steady but tired voice behind them. Stephanie jumped and turned to see Bliss limping toward them, wiping blood off a gash on his face. His expression was impassive, his eyes with that eerie peace. He looked at Morwenna. “Even when he was right.”

“It’s over then?” Tanith asked uncertainly.

“This time,” said Mr Bliss. “Where’s Tome?”

“Gone,” Morwenna told him simply, and rose from where she’d been arranging Meritorious’s shroud.

“He’s not the only one,” Anton said grimly as the Dead Men gathered to them. “Serpine never said where he was holding Hopeless, did he?”

“Only that Hopeless was hidden,” Morwenna admitted.

“What about Saracen?” Dexter demanded. “What’s taking him so long?”

“He got ambushed too,” Stephanie volunteered. “Serpine said he left a welcoming party at the airport.”

“Yes, well,” Dad mumbled, then cleared his throat and straightened. He still hadn’t let go of Stephanie. “As charming as this welcome to the world of magic was, I’m taking my daughter back home and—oh, wait.” He loosened his grip on Stephanie enough to reach down and pull off his shoes, and then tossed them to the floor in the middle of the Dead Men. “These need to be burned, please.”

“You’re burning your shoes?” Erskine asked.

Dad nodded firmly. “Yes. They need to be burned.”

“Why?”

“Did you know you weren’t wearing any socks with them?” Dexter asked, staring at Dad’s feet. Fergus covered his face with one hand.

“Because they were horrible to run in,” Dad said indignantly, and pointed at his heel. “Look! Only two corridors and they gave me _blisters_. They should be destroyed.”

Stephanie and Tanith looked at each other and started giggling with hysterical relief, stuffing their sleeves in their mouths. Ghastly nodded solemnly. “Uncomfortable shoes should always be destroyed. Allow me.”

There was a snap, a spark and a roar, and then Stephanie’s father’s business shoes were so much melted rubber on the floor.

“And you wonder why I was lying to him,” Fergus mumbled toward Rover. Rover was grinning.

“I have no idea what you mean.”

Fergus sighed and held out the box. “Here. Whatever this is, it probably belongs to one of you. I’m taking my brother and niece home before any of us has a mental breakdown.”

“Why, Fergus, for me?” Rover grinned and took the box. “You shouldn’t ha—”

“Wait—” Stephanie began.

“Er—” Tanith said.

“Larrikin—” Corrival snapped. All of them were too late. He’d already opened the box and cut himself off short. He went absolutely white and then shut the box.

“Descry’s?” he asked quietly. Stephanie nodded. Rover stared down at the box. “I wish we’d kept Serpine around longer so I could pummel him to within an inch of his death before Skulduggery offed him, then.”

“What is it?” Erskine demanded, and took the box. He went rigid, just about as rigid as Skulduggery was immobile, and his face rapidly went red with fury and then dead white.

“I’m ready to go home now,” Stephanie said almost desperately to Dad to distract him from the looks on the Dead Men’s faces as they peered over Erskine’s shoulder into the open box. Even Skulduggery’s skull seemed to darken. Dad looked bemusedly down at her. It was the same expression she saw on him all the time, except now it was also pale and there was some kind of weary sadness in his eyes that Stephanie wished wasn’t there.

“If I didn’t know any better I’d think you didn’t want me to know what’s in that box,” he said.

“I don’t,” Stephanie said. “I wish _I_ didn’t know what was in that box. Can we go home? Please?”

Dad and Fergus looked at each other. Then Dad drew her closer against him and nodded. “Yes, I think home is a good idea. Let’s go.”

“We’ll escort you out,” Ghastly offered, helping Corrival get to his feet. “We need to restart the search for Hopeless. Maybe if we go back to the castle.”

“Doubtful,” Bliss said. “There’s nothing left of the castle, and the ruins are infested with vampires besides.”

“It’s somewhere to start,” said Anton. He reached out, prying the box out of Erskine’s hands and closing it with a quiet snap. With the way Erskine looked at him, for a moment Stephanie was sure Erskine would throw a punch. Then he turned and strode toward the door, and they all followed.

It was a large group who trailed out of the archives. Morwenna was the only one who didn’t leave yet, remaining seated by Meritorious’s body until Bliss sent back someone to help carry him.

They were some passages from the lobby when a Sanctuary employee came hurtling down it. “Mr Bliss—Corrival,” she gasped, seeing first one and then the other. “We have a problem. You’d better come quickly.”

“What?” Corrival demanded, moving faster while still leaning on Ghastly.

“It’s Mr Rue,” said the woman, turning and moving fast just ahead of them. “He came in and went crazy. He took one of the Cleaver’s scythes and he’s attacking the floor—was, I think the Cleavers have him restrained now—”

Someone cursed. Stephanie couldn’t tell who it was. The Dead Men surged forward and were in the lobby before the Edgleys. She saw the cluster of frightened and confused employees, the ones who had survived, and the gleaming weapons of the Cleavers, and then a dark-haired man in the centre of the lobby. He was holding a scythe buried in the stone floor and standing very still because of the scythe one of the Cleavers held to his neck.

“Saracen!” Dexter burst out, running to him and stopping short when one of the Cleavers turned on him.

“Hi, Dexter,” Saracen said without taking his eyes off his Cleaver. He wasn’t smiling and aside from his paleness and the fact that his clothes were rumpled, he didn’t look like he’d been in a fight. “I’d wave hello, but I’d like to keep my head and I’m not certain about this gentleman’s trigger-finger.”

“Desist,” Bliss ordered the Cleavers. With the scrape of armour they pulled away, but Stephanie was sure they were glaring at Saracen. He slumped with a sigh, rubbing his throat.

“Why were you attacking the lobby, you idiot?” Corrival demanded, limping forward. Bliss stepped up too, taking the scythe and yanking it easily out of the stone, and handing it to one of the Cleavers.

Saracen looked up at them all. He was _very_ pale, Stephanie saw, and his eyes looked wild. “Da- Descry,” he said, and his voice shook. “Descry’s under the floor, in a coffin, Serpine buried him alive where no one would know—”

At least three of the Dead Men swore and every single one of them leapt forward. Dexter grabbed Saracen’s arm and pulled him away from the pattern marking the centre of the lobby. Erskine, Rover, Skulduggery and Ghastly flanked the mosaic, and Stephanie realised what they were going to do a moment before they did. She covered her face against the explosion of stone and mortar, coughing in the dust. She wasn’t the only one.

Someone made a breeze to clear the air, and when Stephanie looked up she saw Anton standing knee-deep in a jagged hole in the floor, leaning down to throw pieces of debris away. Saracen scrambled in with him, and so did Dexter, and within about a minute they’d cleared enough of the floor to see the coffin below.

Stephanie was sure she heard frantic pounding. She swallowed and didn’t object when Dad held her tight.

Bliss reached down and ripped up the top of the coffin like it was paper. The back of it sparked and glittered with sigils. Saracen was inside almost before the lid was gone, crying out, “Descry!”

Stephanie heard a thin, ragged sound, half a sob and half a mangled word, and she shuddered, thinking of what was in the box Corrival was holding. She could barely see through the crowd of men, but she did catch sight of Saracen cradling Hopeless, the redhead shaking violently and covered in blood, the hands he tried to use to grip Saracen’s shirt and couldn’t because his fingers simply weren’t there. All that was left were bloody knuckles.

“Let’s go,” Tanith said firmly, taking Dad’s arm. It took her pulling on it, and then Fergus as well, before either Stephanie or her father could tear their eyes away from the scene and let themselves be guided around the crowd and up the stairs.

Stephanie looked back only once. She saw Erskine jump into the hole and help Saracen lift Hopeless out. She saw Ghastly reaching down to pick Hopeless up almost as if he was a child, and Saracen vaulting up with tears on his cheeks, and Erskine scrambling out to hover right by Ghastly’s shoulder. The ranks of the Dead Men closed in, a barrier against the rest of the world, and Stephanie turned back and let her trembling father take her to the car.


	19. An end, a beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: Now updated with major spoilers for 'Last Stand of Dead Men'.
> 
> NOTE: Updated 28th September 2014 for canon-tailoring and general nitpicks.

Somewhere in Haggard, a dog was barking. Somewhere a driver beeped his horn and somewhere else people were laughing. It was a Friday night and music drifted to the open kitchen window from the bars and pubs on Main Street, snatches of songs piggybacking on the warm breeze. It was dinner-time and the whole Edgley family was quiet as they ate. Stephanie fiddled with her food, not feeling very hungry, and gazed outside through the window.

Stephanie and her father hadn’t said a single word to each other about what had happened a few nights ago. It wasn’t exactly tense and they weren’t exactly avoiding each other. In fact, Stephanie had noticed that Dad kept her in sight more than usual—he had even rushed out of the house when he saw her leaving, and then insisted on walking her to the beach. Stephanie would have minded, because she wanted to practice some magic, except that she didn’t. She couldn’t keep Corrival’s voice out of her head.

_“Some people out there will try and sideline you because they think your being young is a bad thing. But others—a lot of others—will do it because they believe you’re too precious to risk.”_

Fergus had told Dad where she was and what was going on. That much was obvious. He’d done it not because he wanted to ruin her fun, but to protect her whole family, like he’d been trying to do for years.

That was why Dad had shown up at the Sanctuary. She hadn’t meant to put him in danger like that. She hadn’t wanted her parents to know at all, to protect them. And she knew that was exactly what Dad was feeling whenever he rushed out to drive her somewhere so she didn’t have to walk alone. It was a strange feeling. Strange and a bit scary and kind of annoying, but nice as well.

The problem was that Mum could tell something was wrong. She kept glancing from one to the other and looking worried, but then she’d force a smile and carry a conversation on her own. Stephanie knew they had to do something, but she didn’t know what, and this was one thing she was happy to let Dad handle. Except that Dad seemed to be at a loss too.

A crunch of a footstep on gravel was the only warning they had before a silhouette moved up to the window. Stephanie jumped and then recognised Skulduggery’s hat and scarf. Mum jumped and let out a little shriek. Dad jumped too, but he grabbed for his knife instead, and then looked down at it as if he wasn’t sure what he was meant to be doing with it.

“Ah. My apologies.” Skulduggery tilted his head. “I was hoping Desmond or Stephanie might be in here alone.”

Mum had one hand over her heart, but she took a deep breath. “Mr Pleasant! What are you doing, skulking around our driveway at this time of evening?”

Skulduggery shrugged. “Investigating. How is everyone this evening?”

“Investigating.” Mum’s expression radiated polite disbelief.

“Investigating what?” Dad jumped in almost at once, his face crossed with fear and uncertainty at once. “Is something wrong?”

“Well, not as much as three days ago,” Skulduggery admitted. “I was really just investigating whether any of you were available for an … interview.”

“An interview.” Stephanie had never quite seen the look on her mother’s face that was there now. It was narrow-eyed and suspicious. “At seven in the evening.”

“Did you know your wife is somewhat frightening?” Skulduggery asked Dad. He smiled weakly.

“A little, sometimes.”

“You haven’t told her anything, have you?”

“Told me anything about what?” Mum demanded. She got to her feet, looking between them all, and the only thing that made the situation better was that she looked just as afraid as she did angry. She reached out to take Stephanie’s hand and squeezed it just a little more tightly than was comfortable, but Stephanie didn’t object. “Something’s happened and you both keep dancing around while not saying anything. Des, _what’s_ happened?”

“I …” Dad hesitated. Then his expression hardened into resolve and he got up too, taking Mum’s hand. “Let’s go into the living-room,” he said, and then pointed at Stephanie with a frown that was just a little less mocking than it should have been. “And you, young lady, stay right where you are. No leaving the kitchen.”

“Sure, Dad.” Stephanie was grinning. She wasn’t sure why, because Mum was furious and who knew how she’d react to magic, or if she’d even _believe_ them, but they could always call Fergus or Skulduggery could use some magic if she needed convincing. At least that uncertain tension was going to end.

Skulduggery rested his elbows on the windowsill. For a few moments neither of them said anything. They heard Dad’s voice filter in from down the hall. “Mel, do you remember all those stories I mentioned Grandfather telling me us, about magic? Well, it turns out they’re kind-of all true …”

“They’ll be fine,” Skulduggery remarked. “Desmond is a lot like Gordon.”

“So’s Fergus,” Stephanie said. “More than I thought he was.” She hesitated for a moment and then asked as casually as she could, “So what _is_ happening out there? I haven’t seen even Rover since … since that night.”

She hated the fact that she faltered, but Skulduggery ignored the lapse. She was grateful to him for that. He sounded amused, though. “Why do you think I’m here?”

Then he told her what was happening in the world outside Haggard. Fergus already explained how they had gotten deep into the tunnels under Gordon’s house before Tome had found them. Without a word he’d taken them out, straight into the Sanctuary. Then he had vanished and the only person who seemed to know where he had gone was Morwenna Crow. She was the last remaining Elder, Skulduggery said. Whatever she knew and whoever her student was, she was keeping to herself for now. She had enough on her plate anyway, what with trying to keep the Sanctuary together. Serpine’s allies had resurfaced and struck, and then vanished again when the news of Serpine’s demise had reached them, but between Bliss and Morwenna they had managed to contain anything truly damaging. Except for one thing: although Hopeless told them where Serpine had been holding him, they hadn’t recovered the scans of the Journals. No one knew who had them now.

“What’s she going to do about the Elder Council?” Stephanie asked.

“Meritorious was a good man and the most powerful Grand Mage we had seen in a long time. The other Councils in Europe are worried who will fill the vacuum now that he’s gone. The Americans are offering their support, the Japanese are sending delegates to help us wrest back some control, but …”

“It sounds like a lot of people are panicking.”

“And they have a reason to. Our systems of power, our systems of self-government, are delicate. If we topple, others will follow. We need a strong leader.”

“Morwenna is strong,” Stephanie objected. “You wouldn’t have killed Serpine if it weren’t for her.”

“True,” Skulduggery agreed. “But that’s part of the problem. Morwenna is a necromancer. No necromancer has ever become a Grand Mage, here or in any other country. The only reason she’s on the Council to begin with is because she isn’t affiliated with their Temple. They’re a rather reclusive group. Still, I wouldn’t be surprised if she made it. She has a good reputation in spite of that.”

Morwenna had been stern and cold at times, but Stephanie thought of the genuine grief on her face when Meritorious died. She would be a good leader, Stephanie was sure. “How’s Tanith and Corrival?” she asked.

“They’re fine,” Skulduggery assured her. “Tanith had a dislocated shoulder and Corrival pulled a muscle in his knee, but we know a very good healer.”

Stephanie hesitated and looked down at her plate. Right then, her food looked a lot like something mangled. She pushed it away. “What about Hopeless?”

She hadn’t liked Hopeless, and didn’t know how to feel about the fact that he kept such vital information from his friends. But he had spent a day in that coffin, buried in the maintenance shaft just under the Sanctuary’s lobby, and then nearly the whole day before that being tortured, to protect Fergus. He had to have known where the key was, Fergus had said on the drive home. And he had told Serpine nothing.

Skulduggery hesitated too. His voice softened. “He’ll live. As I said, Professor Grouse is an extremely good healer. The best, in fact. Most of Descry’s physical injuries weren’t all that bad, and Kenspeckle was able to reattach his fingers. He’s lost some fine motor control, but he won’t be crippled.”

“What about his tongue?”

The skeleton shook his head. “There are some things even magic can’t fix.”

Stephanie swallowed. “So he’s just not going to be able to talk for the rest of his life?”

“He knows sign language. He’ll be able to communicate, and he’s staying at the Midnight hotel until he can get on his feet again. It’s enough.”

“The others … all of you kept saying something about a ‘last time’. What happened ‘last time’?”

Skulduggery just looked at her. “This isn’t the first time one of us has been captured by one of Mevolent’s people, Valkyrie. We all swore it would never happen again, and it did. My capture by Serpine was the first, but that was before the Dead Men. Everything that happened after—it all began with Erskine.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Erskine was captured by Mevolent, and Mevolent broke him. It’s because of the information Erskine gave him that Mevolent went after Descry, and managed to capture him too. Obviously, we got him back, but I’m not sure Erskine has ever forgiven himself for it. And he probably never will.”

“Oh.” Stephanie thought of how Erskine had changed once Serpine had taken Hopeless. How angry he’d been. How he’d reacted when Meritorious was talking about Tome being tortured. No wonder.

For a long moment there was silence. They could hear the music out on the street. They could hear Dad and Mum’s voices, quiet and unintelligible in the living-room. Then Stephanie finally asked, “What _is_ Hopeless’s magic? You kept saying that he knew everything, but none of you ever said how. Why would Mevolent and Serpine want him so much?”

Skulduggery didn’t answer at first. He was staring somewhere into the kitchen wall opposite the window. Then, finally, he said, “Hopeless is a mind-reader.”

“A what?”

Skulduggery looked at her. “A mind-reader. It’s a very rare ability. So rare that most people who are known as mind-readers can only do so with a lot of effort and physical contact. They can be useful, but only if there’s time for them to work. Mostly, there isn’t. Most of the time, they’re just not practical.”

“Except for Hopeless,” Stephanie said. She felt cold. Skulduggery nodded.

“Except for Hopeless. It’s what makes him so powerful. He doesn’t have to try. The opposite, in fact—Hopeless can’t turn his power off. He can control it enough to take the edge off, but every second of every day he is hearing the thoughts of the people around him.”

Stephanie thought of the way that Hopeless had sometimes seemed only half there. How he’d seemed to anticipate what people were doing, or what they were about to ask. How the Dead Men had always turned to him for answers when there was something they didn’t know. The chill vanished in a flush of hot anger. “He was in my _head_?”

“He’s in everyone’s head,” Skulduggery said, “except for mine. I don’t have a brain for him to read.” He was still looking at her. “You look angry.”

She didn’t say anything. She _felt_ angry. Hopeless had been reading her mind without permission all along.

“That reaction,” Skulduggery said quietly, “is exactly why no one knows. If half the people on _our_ side had found out what he could do during the war, why he was such a good spy, then his life wouldn’t have been worth anything. Think, Valkyrie. Why are his promises so important? If people can trust that their secrets are safe with him, then perhaps people might be able to accept him.”

Stephanie took a deep breath and forced herself to pay attention. He was right, she had to admit. If she’d thought that Hopeless would go around talking about everything he’d read from _her_ mind, she wouldn’t want to see him again. But now she knew that he would keep it all secret. He’d kept everything he and Tome had been doing secret, just because Tome had asked—and that was from his best friends. That was after being _tortured_. She still really didn’t like the idea of someone who knew everything she was thinking, but maybe she could handle being around him.

But it was more than that. She looked up. “That’s why he lives out in the middle of nowhere, isn’t it?” she asked. “If he can’t turn it off, then he has to live all the way out there just so he can have some time where he doesn’t hear anyone’s thoughts at all.” Another thought occurred. “That’s why he likes internet chatrooms. He can’t hear the thoughts of the people he’s talking to over the internet, can he?”

“No,” Skulduggery said, and he sounded pleased. “He can’t. He was very taken with telephones for the same reason—he can hold a conversation with someone and not know the whole conversation before it happens. Get him on a phone and he can yap away for hours like a teenage girl.” Stephanie glared. Skulduggery laughed.

Stephanie almost smiled, but then it faded before she could. “Except he can’t anymore, can he? He can’t talk.” A shiver ran down her spine. “His magic is why Serpine hid him under the Sanctuary’s lobby, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Skulduggery admitted softly. “Serpine chose his revenge well. The coffin was magic. It would have kept Hopeless alive for a long time, and all the while, he would have been surrounded by the thoughts of people who didn’t know he was there. There’s only so long even someone as strong as Hopeless can hold up under that.”

“But you’ll be there for him. All of you.”

“Yes,” Skulduggery said simply, “we will. I’ll be headed there next, in fact. Well, just as soon as your mother decides if she wants to hit me with a frying-pan or not.”

Stephanie laughed. Another snippet of pub music drifted by the window, and Stephanie thought about the world she’d grown up in, and how different it was to the world she’d been introduced to, and yet how similar. There was joy and happiness in both, just as there was heartbreak and horror. There was good and evil and everything in-between, and these qualities seemed to be shared equally in the worlds of the magical and the mundane. It was her life now. She couldn’t imagine living without either one.

If the conversation between her parents went well, maybe she wouldn’t have to.

 

Morwenna Crow waited in silence. The alley was dark and narrow, in a part of Dublin mortals didn’t generally go. The meeting she had arranged needed to be quick and secluded. If all went well, any unintended observers would have a lot to be suspicious about, so it was prudent to ensure there were none. It was the first chance she’d had, and she only wanted to have to do this once.

She wasn’t sure her student would be willing to meet her more than that.

A footstep, echoed by the thud of a cane on stone, made her turn. Solomon Wreath bowed, and there was a faintly sardonic turn to his mouth as he did, but Morwenna also knew the bow was deeper than anything he gave to anyone other than the High Priest himself. “Master Crow.”

“Not your master any longer,” Morwenna pointed out. She didn’t smile, but she didn’t withhold the warmth in her voice either. Affection wasn’t encouraged among necromancers. That didn’t stop them from having favourites, and Morwenna had been more eccentric than most. Then again, so was Solomon.

“True,” Solomon acknowledged. “I understand congratulations are in order. Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Morwenna said dryly, “but I’m not here for that. Neither are you. I imagine you’d rather not risk the Temple finding out you’re meeting me, and that risk will only grow if we have to meet again.”

Until then, Solomon’s expression had been amiable. Now it became wary. “Ah. Yes. Sagacious Tome.”

“Where is he?”

Solomon shrugged. “Safe. Hidden. Say what you will about Serpine, he does have a touch of genius.”

Morwenna’s eyes hardened. “That genius murdered Eachan Meritorious.”

“I remember a time when you approved of experimentation with necromancy,” Solomon observed.

“There are limits to everything,” Morwenna said grimly, “and the Temple crossed that line the moment they pronounced Lord Vile our saviour.” She shook her head and even managed to smile a little. “You’re distracting me. You’re always been good at talking me in circles.”

“A product of my foolish and inauspicious youth,” Solomon answered with something approaching a smile. He regarded her for a moment and then sighed. “You want Tome.”

“I want him released.”

“You mean dead.”

“It’s a better fate than he has now.”

“He’s alive now,” Solomon pointed out, “and immortal to boot.”

“And enslaved to whomever is powerful enough to hold him,” Morwenna countered. “How long do you think it will be before the High Priest starts to ask what happened to him? You haven’t told Tenebrae you have him yet, have you?” Solomon didn’t answer. Morwenna smiled. “Because you knew I’d be here, asking for Sagacious back. And you didn’t want to explain why you let him go.”

“I haven’t said I will let him go.”

“You owe me, Solomon.” Morwenna looked him square in the eye. “Never forget what you owe me.”

“Believe me, Morwenna,” Solomon said, looking back with an ironic twist to his mouth. “I never have.”

There was a rush of magic beside them and then Sagacious was there, silent and blank-faced. He had enough awareness to look at Morwenna, enough that she could see the hope and the plea in his eyes. She didn’t break her gaze with her former student, though, and after a moment Solomon tapped his cane once on the ground. Shadows rushed out from that point and travelled up Sagacious’s body, and then pulled away into the concrete. Morwenna had time to see the gratitude on the teleporter’s face before his eyes closed and his knees gave in, and he sank toward the bitumen.

Morwenna caught him before he hit the ground, using shadows to help support him. Gently she laid him across her lap. There was no magic in him now, she could feel—none but the coldness of the death her brooch absorbed. Sagacious Tome was free.

“My debt?” Solomon asked from overhead.

Morwenna looked up at him. He gazed down at her impassively. “Paid.”

It wasn’t obvious, but she saw some of the tension leave his face. Most others wouldn’t see it. Not very many people knew Solomon Wreath well enough for that. He bowed. “Grand Mage.”

Shadows rustled up and covered him, and when they drew away he was gone. Morwenna looked back down at Sagacious, and she brushed some hair off his face. Then she gathered him up in her arms as best as she could and summoned her own shadows to return them to the Sanctuary, where Sagacious could have a proper burial—like the hero he was.

 

Dexter was worried. They were all worried. Skulduggery had been uncharacteristically quiet since the fight with Serpine, although that was expected. Ghastly was handling it in his own way, and he’d tell them if he needed their help.

They were more worried about Hopeless.

Which was understandable, seeing as he’d been tortured for two days. Not just him, either. The people around him. The people around him whose torture Serpine had forced him to endure. There were times, after he had a bad night, when Hopeless could say nothing almost for days while he tried to remember he was himself and not whosever memories he had been dreaming. Now he wasn’t going to say anything. Not ever again.

All of them knew that. That was part of the problem. Hopeless was getting all their echoes of worry, with no way to express them. He and Skulduggery were the only ones who knew sign-language, and of _course_ the rest of them were going to learn, but in the meantime …

In the meantime all they could do was sit with him. Talk to him, mentally and physically. Reassure him that they knew he was there, that he wasn’t all alone in a box barely the length and width of his body with thoughts passing unknowing overhead. Saracen had hovered for a day and a half, which combined with his not sleeping on the planes had obliged Rover to drag him off to bed and sit on him until he got some rest. Erskine had resisted all attempts to drag him out of the room until Hopeless had taken matters into his own hands. Dexter didn’t know for sure what they’d talked about before Erskine had finally left, but he could guess, and Erskine had at least looked calmer when he came out.

Right now Dexter was the one on guard duty. He was talking aimlessly about—what _was_ he talking about? Oh, rainbows. He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten onto the subject, and when he realised he didn’t know how he’d gotten onto this subject he had to pause to think. And then he didn’t know what he was meant to say next.

“Uh …”

He glanced at Hopeless. Hopeless looked back, one eyebrow lifted and the faintest of faint smiles around his mouth. They didn’t reach his eyes. Hopeless’s smiles were always most prominent in his eyes. Right now his eyes were tired and hollow, still with that faint desperation, and all of a sudden it struck Dexter how old he was. Dexter was sure Hopeless hadn’t had that much grey in his hair before. He’d had a few flecks for a little while, but now they were more obvious streaks.

Hopeless’s face fell into blankness. Dexter shook his head violently and forcibly yanked his thoughts away from how awful Hopeless was looking and into something happy. Like … sunflowers. Sunflowers and daisies. Daisy-chains, even. Maybe they could tie Saracen to his bed using daisy-chains. Yeah, that was a good idea. It would go well with those subscriptions Gordon had given him as a bequest. As a matter of fact, they ought to start arriving at Hopeless’s cottage soon.

No, wait, his PO Box. Hopeless lived too far out to have a postal address on site, and Saracen didn’t have anything at all. He always had his mail sent to Hopeless. To his father.

Maybe Dex could send them both daisy-chains.

“Send who daisy-chains?” Skulduggery asked. Dexter looked around, stopping his verbal train of thought.

“Descry and Saracen,” he said promptly, and because Hopeless would know it anyway he didn’t bother to keep the relief out of his voice. They kept Hopeless company, one by one, because it was better than his being alone even if he could hear their thoughts in the next room. But with Skulduggery here it meant that they could keep their distance so he wasn’t overwhelmed by their worry and still have someone to talk to.

Skulduggery tilted his head. “Why are you sending Descry and Saracen daisy-chains?”

“Well, they would go well with Saracen’s new bridal magazines,” Dexter pointed out, rising and stretching. “I’m going to go see if I can sneak one of Gordon’s books out from under Anton’s nose.”

Hopeless tapped the table-top and handed him a folded-over piece of paper. Dexter saluted with it as he left, leaving the door open so either one of them could give a shout if they needed a hand. Only then did he open Hopeless’s note. His handwriting, once flowing and beautiful, was broad and stilted. His fingers were going to get better, Kenspeckle had assured them. They might not quite get to where they’d been before, but given enough time and the ointments Kenspeckle had provided, the stiffness would go away.

It still wasn’t easy to see the change. Especially when Dexter saw Hopeless writing in one of his journals, and how much it hurt him just to move his fingers that much.

_‘Stick around. Might need you.’_

Need him? Dexter wondered. Need him for what? He shrugged, went to the desk, conjured a key shaped precisely like the one he’d seen Anton use and unlocked the cabinet. He took the first book, re-locked the door and then settled himself in an armchair in the lobby. It was a good armchair. It was an armchair with a precise location so he could hear Hopeless and Skulduggery’s conversation and see what was happening inside the room without being seen himself.

“I’d ask how you are,” Skulduggery was saying, “but I’ve no patience for silly questions.” Hopeless’s lips tilted up. “So let’s get the depressing things out of the way first.” His voice turned gentle. “Meritorious named you the heir to his clan, didn’t he?”

Dexter cringed. So that’s what Hopeless had been fiddling with all night. The clan crest.

The mind-reader sighed and nodded, turning over his hand to show Skulduggery the medallion. Hopeless didn’t have a clan crest. Dexter knew for a fact that Saracen had made one for them both, but Saracen also knew that it would take a lot for Hopeless to accept it. He was too used to being nobody. That had to change now. Meritorious’s mentor, who’d owned the crest before, had been an influential man too. The _crest_ was influential.

“Let us know when you’re ready to move the things from his manor,” Skulduggery said, and then added dryly, “I’m sure we can find someone willing to buy half of Meritorious’s estate.”

Hopeless laughed silently. At least that wasn’t any different. His humour had always been the quiet sort.

“Since you’ve pestered me for years about the value of talking about one’s trauma,” Skulduggery continued, “I feel it’s perfectly fair for me to say that when you feel ready to talk, I’m here to listen.”

The smile this time did reach Hopeless’s eyes. Dexter grinned behind Anton’s book, resisting the urge to shake his head in case Skulduggery noticed the movement. It figured that of anyone, Skulduggery would be able to reach Hopeless the most easily. The two of them were annoyingly smart like that.

Writing was too much trouble. So was signing. Hopeless spoke instead, knowing full well that Skulduggery could lip-read.

Knowing full well that Dexter could too.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Of course you will. You’re a mind-reader. So, is there anything you’d like to talk about?”

Hopeless tilted his head in an uncanny imitation of Skulduggery himself. The intensity of his gaze was the sort all the Dead Men knew heralded some wisdom or soul-search. Dexter slid deeper into his armchair.

“How about how you’re feeling now that Serpine’s dead?”

“This isn’t much of a conversational topic,” Skulduggery said doubtfully. “Rather boring. Not much to tell.”

“The anger didn’t go away, did it?”

Skulduggery slumped. “Really? Now? Can’t we talk about you instead?” Hopeless lifted his eyebrow at him. Skulduggery sighed. Dexter suppressed a smile. “No.”

“Did you expect it to?”

“It would have been nice. I’m getting the impression you’re leading up to something, Hopeless.”

Dexter got the sinking feeling he knew what Hopeless was leading up to as well. Unlike Skulduggery, he thought he could guess what it was, too. Now he knew why Hopeless wanted him to stick around.

“I know, Skulduggery.”

“Know? Know about what?” Hopeless said nothing. He just stared at Skulduggery with that patient intensity until Skulduggery tensed up. Even as a skeleton, his wariness was obvious. “You can’t be talking about what I think you’re talking about.”

“I am.”

“Of course you’re not. You can’t be. You would have told someone a long time ago if you did.”

“I chose not to.”

For a very, very long time there was no answer. They sat staring at one another. It took so long for either of them to say anything that Dexter had actually started reading the book in his hands.

Then, abruptly, Skulduggery asked, “Why? Didn’t you tell anyone?”

He sounded lost. Like just after he’d vanished for five years and come back. Like he wasn’t sure what his reception would be. Like he couldn’t understand why things were happening the way they were.

“Would it have helped you recover?”

“Probably not.”

“There you are, then.”

“You know, for someone who’s meant to enlighten people about themselves you’re really rather cryptic. Par for the psychology course, I suppose.”

“I have to meet my quota somehow.”

Hopeless grinned at him. Skulduggery shook his head and laughed, and then there was a moment or two of companionable silence. Then Skulduggery asked, “Why are you telling me this now?”

“I know why you didn’t die.”

Skulduggery froze. Dexter did too. They’d always known how powerful Hopeless was, how much he knew, that he had whole _people_ in his head because of how much he’d absorbed from those around him over the centuries. But there were some things they’d simply accepted _no one_ could possibly know. They should have known better.

“You … what? How long have you known that?” Skulduggery sounded more disconcerted than Dexter had ever heard him.

“A while. Since about the end of the war.”

“How?”

“I read it from the mind of the person responsible while meeting with them on a diplomatic mission.”

“Person responsible? Someone _did this_ to me?” The skeleton’s voice had grown sharp and intent, and though he didn’t actually lean forward Dexter doubted he would have been aware of anything besides the redhead across the table. For a moment Hopeless didn’t say anything. He just looked at him. “… You aren’t going to tell me.”

“What gave you that idea?”

“Because,” Skulduggery said, and he sounded resigned, “you’re afraid of what might happen if I find out. And you’re right to be.”

“It’s something to be concerned over. It was Tenebrae.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Dexter stared at Hopeless through the door. He knew his expression was probably horrified, but he couldn’t help it. Was Hopeless _nuts_? After everything Skulduggery had been through, everything of which he was capable, Hopeless just went and handed him the person who was at fault for it all? From the tone of his voice, Skulduggery couldn’t believe it either.

“Tenebrae was the one who taught Serpine the Red Hand technique. He’d seen you use necromancy before, in the heat of battle, and thought you could be useful to the Temple. Something you couldn’t be if you were dead. So he made sure you wouldn’t die.”

More silence. Stunned silence. Then Skulduggery cleared his throat, and only Skulduggery could have made his voice be even after being given a bombshell like that. “Why are you telling me this?”

Hopeless smiled. “Now you have somewhere to direct that anger.”

“It’s a bad idea. I might just go and kill Tenebrae. That would be a very bad thing.”

“Which is why you won’t do it. He’s too influential. Too well-known. The Temple would never rest until you were found. It risks war between the Temple and the Sanctuary. Tenebrae, right now, is untouchable even for you.”

“What was the point in telling me, then?”

“We all need purpose in our lives, Skulduggery.”

Another pause. Then, “Pie.”

Hopeless tilted his head. His expression was quizzical, but he was still smiling, still amused. Still completely confident, completely in control. Only the fact that he’d asked Dexter to stay was evidence of the fact that he wasn’t certain the conversation would have gone this way. Because Dexter was the only other person to know, and all because of a particularly bad nightmare Hopeless had endured and Dexter had witnessed.

“Apple or apricot?”

“Just making sure you can’t _actually_ read my mind. And apricot, of course.”

“Good answer.” Hopeless grinned at him, and for the first time since they’d pulled him out of Snow White’s coffin Dexter saw a glimmer of a twinkle in his eyes. It wasn’t as strong as usual and didn’t completely get rid of the hollowness, but it was a start. It was a start.

“Of course, apricot pies are aren’t as good as blueberry pies. I think it should be a blueberry pie instead.”

“Want to go and commandeer Anton’s kitchen?”

Skulduggery shrugged and rose. “Why not? So long as no one blames me when they get poisoned.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on you.”

“Only one? I think I should be a little bit worried about your perception of appropriate prevention here …”

Dexter was paying attention to the book when Skulduggery guided Hopeless out of the parlour. The mind-reader was still shaky on his feet from the blood-loss. Over the rim of the book Dexter saw Skulduggery hesitate when he saw him, and Dexter looked up to grin. “Oh, taking Descry out on a date? Good, he’s been a shut-in for three days. Just make sure he’s back by ten and I won’t set my attack dog on you.”

“Only as long as your attack dog doesn’t try to attack me with cuddles,” Skulduggery countered, quite obviously deciding to ignore the potential of Dexter having overheard anything and leading Hopeless toward the kitchen. “You know, we’re making an assumption here. We’re assuming Anton has blueberries. What if he doesn’t? We’re going to be in a bit of trouble then, aren’t we? We won’t be able to make blueberry pies.”

“You could always make raspberry pies,” Dexter suggested. Skulduggery turned his head, very slowly, to look at him, and then shook it.

“Shameful. Absolutely shameful, Dexter Vex. You ought to be appalled at yourself.”

“Can I make it up to you by helping you find the blueberries?”

“I think that would do nicely, yes. In return, I also won’t tell Anton you stole one of his books.”

“Oh, he’ll live,” Dexter said dismissively, getting up and putting the book on the desk. Hopeless was grinning at him. “If he sees the state of the kitchen after you’re done with it, on the other hand …”

“I think you mean after _you’re_ done with it,” Skulduggery pointed out.

Inside of two hours Dexter knew that every single one of them would wind up in the kitchen after someone wandered through the parlour and saw Hopeless gone. He knew that Anton would take to the task with longsuffering patience and produce very nice pies; that Ghastly would with a frowning intent that still would not make his pies taste anywhere near good; that Rover and Saracen would spend more time eating the dough than cooking; that Erskine would kick up his feet and claim the position of taste-tester; that Skulduggery would complain about being oppressed for his work when he couldn’t reap the benefits.

That Hopeless would sit back in one of the chairs with his eyes closed and listen, just listen with a smile, as he replaced the memories of horror and pain with those of brotherhood. That was how it would be. That was how it _should_ be.

Grinning, Dexter trailed after Skulduggery and Hopeless. “I think being dead has affected your sense of judgement, dead man …”


End file.
